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A    WILD   GARDEN   IN   THE  WONDF.RI.ANI) 
On  t!r    i  Boundary-Line  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park 


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£0e  (Ribersifce  (press  Camflriojje 


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COPYRIGHT,    1915,    BY   ENOS   A.    MILLS 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  April  1Q15 


<5eot££  ^ovace  Borimev 


(preface 


Colorado  has  one  thousand  peaks  that  rise 
more  than  two  miles  into  the  sky.  About 
one  hundred  and  fifty  of  these  reach  up  beyond 
thirteen  thousand  feet  in  altitude.  There  are 
more  than  twice  as  many  peaks  of  fourteen 
thousand  feet  in  Colorado  as  in  all  the  other 
States  of  the  Union.  An  enormous  area  is  en- 
tirely above  the  limits  of  tree-growth;  but  these 
heights  above  the  timber-line  are  far  from  being 
barren  and  lifeless.  Covering  these  mountains 
with  robes  of  beauty  are  forests,  lakes,  mead- 
ows, brilliant  flowers,  moorlands,  and  vine-like 
streams  that  cling  to  the  very  summits.  This 
entire  mountain  realm  is  delightfully  rich  in 
plant  and  animal  life,  from  the  lowest  meadows 
to  the  summits  of  the  highest  peaks. 

Each  year  the  State  is  colored  with  more  than 
three  thousand  varieties  of  wild  flowers,  cheered 
by  more  than  four  hundred  species  of  birds,  and 
enlivened  with  a  numerous  array  of  other  wild 

vii 


(preface 


life.  Well  has  it  been  called  the  "Playground 
of  America."  It  is  an  enormous  and  splendid 
hanging  wild  garden. 

This  mountain  State  of  the  Union  has  al- 
ways appealed  to  the  imagination  and  has 
called  forth  many  graphic  expressions.  Thus 
Colorado  sought  statehood  from  Congress  under 
the  name  of  Tahosa,  —  "  Dwellers  of  the  Moun- 
tain-Tops." Even  more  of  poetic  suggestive- 
ness  has  the  name  given  by  an  invading  Indian 
tribe  to  the  Arapahoes  of  the  Continental  Divide, 
—  "Men  of  the  Blue  Sky." 

I  have  visited  on  foot  every  part  of  Colo- 
rado and  have  made  scores  of  happy  excursions 
through  these  mountains.  These  outings  were  in 
every  season  of  the  year  and  they  brought  me 
into  contact  with  the  wild  life  of  the  heights  in 
every  kind  of  weather.  High  peaks  by  the  score 
have  been  climbed  and  hundreds  of  miles  cov- 
ered on  snowshoes.  I  have  even  followed  the 
trail  by  night,  and  by  moonlight  have  enjoyed 
the  solemn  forests,  the  silent  lakes,  the  white 
cascades,  and  the  summits  of  the  high  peaks. 

The  greater  part  of  this  book  deals  with  na- 
viii 


(preface 


ture  and  with  my  own  experiences  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains  of  Colorado.  Some  of  the  chapters 
in  slightly  different  form  have  been  printed  in 
various  publications.  The  Saturday  Evening 
Post  published  "The  Grizzly  Bear,"  "Wild 
Folk  of  the  Mountain-Summits,"  "Wild  Moun- 
tain Sheep,"  "Associating  with  Snow-Slides, " 
"The  Forest  Frontier,"  "Bringing  back  the  For- 
est, "  and  "Going  to  the  Top."  Country  Life  in 
America  published  "A  Mountain  Pony";  The 
Youth's  Companion,  "Some  Forest  History"; 
Recreation,  "Drought  in  Beaver  World";  and 
Our  Dumb  Animals,  "My  Chipmunk  Callers." 
The  editors  of  these  publications  have  kindly 
consented  to  the  publishing  of  these  papers  in 

this  volume. 

E.  A.  M. 

Long's  Peak,  Estes  Park,  Colorado, 
January,  191 5. 


Contents 


Going  to  the  Top I 

Wild  Mountain  Sheep 21 

The  Forest  Frontier 47 

The  Chinook  Wind 67 

Associating  with  Snow-Slides         .       ...       .       .77 

Wild  Folk  of  the  Mountain-Summits  ....  99 

Some  Forest  History 123 

Mountain  Lakes 147 

A  Mountain  Pony 167 

The  Grizzly  Bear .  185 

Bringing  back  the  Forest 209 

Mountain  Parks 227 

Drought  in  Beaver  World 247 

In  the  Winter  Snows 257 

My  Chipmunk  Callers 275 

xi 


Contents 

A  Peak  by  the  Plains 293 

The  Conservation  of  Scenery 311 

The  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park         .       .       .333 
Index ,  355 


^ttuBtxaiiom 


A  Wild  Garden  in  the  Wonderland,  on  the  Eastern 
Boundary-Line  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  National 
Park Frontispiece 

The  Narr oii's,  Long's  Peak  Trail 14 

A  Wild  Mountain  Sheep 4° 

The  Way  of  the  Wind  at  Timber-Line  ...  52 

A  Timber-Line  Lake  in  Northwestern  Colorado  .       .  64 

Lizard  Head  Peak  in  the  San  Juan  Mountains  .       .     84 
Photograph  by  George  L.  Beam. 

Alpine  Pastures  above  Timber-Line,  near  Specimen 
Mountain  in  the  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park  .  104 
Photograph  by  John  K.  Sherman. 

A  t  the  Edge  of  the  Arctic-Alpine  Life  Zone  in  the  San 

Juan  Mountains 116 

Photograph  by  George  L.  Beam. 

A  Western  Yellow  Pine 126 

Crystal  Lake;  a  Typical  Glacier  Lake    ...       .       .15° 

Trapper  s  Lake 158 

Cricket,  the  Return  Horse,  at  the  Summit  of  the  Pass  172 

xiii 


limitations 

Looking  Eastward  from  Lizard  Head    .       .       .       .180 

Overgrown  Cones  in  the  Heart  of  a  Lodge-Pole  Pine .  222 
Photograph  by  Herbert  W.  Gleason. 

A  Mountain  Park  in  the  San  Juan  Mountains        .  230 

Capitol  Peak  and  Snow  Mass  Mountain  from  Galena 
Park,  Colorado      ' 242 

Photograph  by  L.  C.  McClure,  Denver. 

A  Deer  in  Deep  Snow,  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park  260 

Entertaining  a  Chipmunk  Caller 278 

Photograph  by  Frank  C.  Ervin. 

Pike's  Peak  from  the  Top  of  Cascade  Canon      .       .  296 
Photograph  by  Photo-Craft  Shop,  Colorado  Springs. 

The  Continental  Divide  near  Estes  Park       .       .       .314 

Long's  Peak  from  Loch  Vale 322 

Photograph  by  George  C.  Barnard. 

Map  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park    .     .    .  336 

Estes  Park  Entrance  to  the  Rocky  Mountain  Na- 
tional Park 34° 

Photograph  by  Mrs.  M.  K.  Sherman. 

The  Fall  River  Road  across  the  Continental  Divide  in 
the  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park   ....  344 
Photograph  by  W.  T.  Parke. 

Except  as  otherwise  noted  the  illustrations  are 
from  photographs  by  the  author. 


45oin<5  to  t%t  £op 


d3oitt<5  to  tfyt  £op 

-^J^he  seven  football-players  who  engaged  me 
^W'  to  guide  them  to  the  top  of  Long's  Peak 
did  not  reveal  their  identity  until  we  were  on 
the  way.  Long's  Peak,  high,  massive,  and  wildly 
rugged,  is  the  king  of  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
and  there  were  five  thousand  feet  of  altitude 
and  seven  steeply  inclined  miles  between  our 
starting-point  and  the  granite-piled  summit. 

We  set  out  on  foot.  The  climbers  yelled, 
threw  stones,  and  wrestled.  They  were  so  oc- 
cupied with  themselves  during  the  first  mile 
that  I  managed  to  keep  them  from  running  over 
me.  Presently  they  discovered  me  and  gave  a 
cheer,  and  then  proceeded  energetically  with 
the  evident  intention  of  killing  me  off. 

It  was  fortunate  for  me  that  the  experience 
of  more  than  a  hundred  guiding  trips  to  the 
summit  was  a  part  of  my  equipment.  In  ad- 
dition to  the  valuable  lessons  that  had  been 
dearly  learned  in  guiding,  I  had  made  dozens  of 

3 


trips  to  the  summit  before  offering  my  services 
as  guide.  I  had  made  climbs  in  every  kind  of 
weather  to  familiarize  myself  thoroughly  with 
the  way  to  the  top.  These  trips  —  always 
alone  —  were  first  made  on  clear  days,  then  on 
stormy  ones,  and  finally  at  night.  When  I  was 
satisfied  that  I  could  find  the  trail  under  the 
worst  conditions,  endurance  tests  were  made. 
One  of  these  consisted  in  making  a  quick  round 
trip,  then,  after  only  a  few  minutes'  rest, 
shouldering  thirty  or  forty  pounds  of  supplies 
and  hastening  to  the  rescue  of  an  imaginary 
climber  ill  on  the  summit. 

Besides  two  seasons  of  this  preliminary  ex- 
perience, the  rocks,  glacial  records,  birds,  trees, 
and  flowers  along  the  trail  were  studied,  other 
peaks  climbed,  and  books  concerning  moun- 
tain-climbing diligently  read.  But  long  before 
my  two  hundred  and  fifty-seven  guiding  trips 
were  completed,  I  found  myself  ignorant  of  one 
of  the  most  important  factors  in  guiding,  and 
perhaps,  too,  in  life,  —  and  that  is  human 
nature. 

Several  climbs  had  been  made  simply  to  learn 

4 


(Boing  to  tfyt  Cop 

the  swiftest  pace  I  could  maintain  from  bottom 
to  summit  without  a  rest.  Thus  ably  coached 
by  experience,  I  steadied  to  the  work  when  my 
noisy  football-players  started  to  run  away  from 
me.  Each  player  in  turn  briefly  set  a  hot  pace, 
and  in  a  short  time  they  were  ahead  of  me. 
Even  though  they  guyed  me  unmercifully,  I 
refused  to  be  hurried  and  held  to  the  swiftest 
pace  that  I  knew  could  be  maintained.  Two 
hours  raised  us  through  thirty-five  hundred 
feet  of  altitude  and  advanced  us  five  miles.  We 
were  above  the  timber-line,  and,  though  some 
distance  behind  the  boys,  I  could  tell  they  were 
tiring.  Presently  the  guide  was  again  in  the 
lead! 

By-and-by  one  of  the  boys  began  to  pale, 
and  presently  he  turned  green  around  the 
mouth.  He  tried  desperately  to  bluff  it  off,  but 
ill  he  was.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  to  quit, 
overcome  with  nausea.  A  moment  later  another 
long-haired  brave  tumbled  down.  On  the  others 
went,  but  three  more  were  dropped  along  the 
trail,  and  only  two  of  those  husk}-,  well-trained 
athletes  reached  the  summit!    That  evening, 

5 


(Roc8j>  (piounfain  TUontorfanb 

when  those  sad  fellows  saw  me  start  off  to 
guide  another  party  up  by  moonlight,  they  con- 
cluded that  I  must  be  a  wonder;  but  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  being  an  invalid,  I  had  learned  some- 
thing of  conservation.  This  experience  fixed  in 
my  mind  the  importance  of  climbing  slowly. 

Hurriedly  climbing  a  rugged  peak  is  a  dan- 
gerous pastime.  Trail  hurry  frequently  produces 
sickness.  A  brief  dash  may  keep  a  climber  agi- 
tated for  an  hour.  During  this  time  he  will  waste 
his  strength  doing  things  the  wrong  way, — often, 
too,  annoying  or  endangering  the  others. 

Finding  a  way  to  get  climbers  to  go  slowly 
was  a  problem  that  took  me  time  to  solve.  Early 
in  the  guiding  game  the  solution  was  made  im- 
possible by  trying  to  guide  large  parties  and  by 
not  knowing  human  nature.  Once  accomplished, 
slow  going  on  the  trail  noticeably  decreased  the 
cases  of  mountain-sickness,  greatly  reduced  the 
number  of  quarrels,  and  enabled  almost  all 
starters  to  gain  the  height  desired.  Slow  climb- 
ing added  pleasure  to  the  trip  and  enabled 
every  one  to  return  in  good  form  and  with 
splendid  pictures  in  his  mind. 

6 


(Botng  to  t$t  Cop 

To  keep  the  party  together,  —  for  the  tend- 
ency of  climbers  is  to  scatter,  some  traveling 
rapidly  and  others  slowly,  —  it  became  my 
practice  to  stop  occasionally  and  tell  a  story, 
comment  on  a  bit  of  scenery,  or  relate  an  inci- 
dent that  had  occurred  near  by.  As  I  spoke  in 
a  low  tone,  the  climbers  ahead  shouting  "Hurry 
up!"  and  the  ones  behind  calling  "Wait!" 
could  not  hear  me.  This  method  kept  down 
friction  and  usually  held  the  party  together. 
With  a  large  party,  however,  confusion  some- 
times arose  despite  my  efforts  to  anticipate 
it. 

Hoping  to  get  valuable  climbing  suggestions, 
I  told  my  experiences  one  day  to  a  gentleman 
who  I  thought  might  help  me;  but  he  simply  re- 
peated the  remark  of  Trampas  that  in  every 
party  of  six  there  is  a  fool!  It  is  almost  impos- 
sible for  a  numerous  party,  even  though  every 
one  of  them  may  be  well-meaning,  to  travel 
along  a  steep  trail  without  friction. 

My  most  unpleasant  climb  was  with  a  fateful 
six,  —  three  loving  young  couples.  Two  college 
professors  about  to  be  married  formed  one  of  the 

7 


(Rocfy)  QUounfoin  T2?onber(an*> 

couples.  He,  the  son  of  wealthy  parents,  had 
been  sent  West  to  mend  his  health  and  man- 
ners; he  met  a  young  school-ma'am  who  re- 
formed him.  They  attended  the  same  college 
and  became  professors  in  a  State  school.  They 
were  to  be  married  at  the  end  of  this  outing; 
but  on  this  climb  they  quarreled.  Each  married 
another!  Sweethearts  for  years  was  the  story 
of  the  second  couple.  They,  too,  quarreled  on 
the  trail,  but  made  up  again.  The  story  of  the 
third  couple  is  interestingly  complicated.  He 
was  rich,  young,  and  impetuous;  she,  hand- 
some and  musical.  For  years  she  had  received 
his  ardent  attentions  indifferently.  As  we  ap- 
proached the  top  of  the  peak,  he  became  ex- 
tremely impatient  with  her.  As  though  to  make 
confusion  worse  confounded,  after  years  of  in- 
difference the  young  lady  became  infatuated 
with  her  escort.  He  tried  to  avoid  her,  but  she 
feigned  a  sprained  ankle  to  insure  his  comfort- 
ing closeness.  They  are  both  single  to  this  day. 
Meantime  the  six  had  a  general  row  among 
themselves,  and  at  the  close  of  it  united  to 
"roast"  me!    Whether  imp  or  altitude  was  to 


(Boing  to  t$t  Cop 

blame  for  this  deviltry  matters  not;  the  guide 
had  to  suffer  for  it. 

Early  in  guiding  I  conceived  it  to  be  my  duty 
to  start  for  the  top  with  any  one  who  cared  to 
try  it,  and  I  felt  bound  also  to  get  the  climber 
to  the  top  if  possible.  This  was  poor  theory  and 
bad  practice.  After  a  few  exasperating  and 
exhausting  experiences  I  learned  the  folly  of 
dragging  people  to  the  top  who  were  likely  to 
be  too  weak  to  come  back.  One  day  a  party 
of  four  went  up.  Not  one  of  them  was  accus- 
tomed to  walking,  and  all  had  apparently  lived 
to  eat.  After  eight  hard  hours  we  reached  the 
summit,  where  all  four  collapsed.  A  storm  came 
on,  and  we  were  just  leaving  the  top  when  day- 
light faded.  It  rained  at  intervals  all  night  long, 
with  the  temperature  a  trifle  below  freezing. 
We  would  climb  down  a  short  distance,  then 
huddle  shivering  together  for  a  while.  At  times 
every  one  wTas  suffering  from  nausea.  We  got 
down  to  timber-line  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. Here  a  rest  by  a  rousing  camp-fire  enabled 
all  to  go  on  down.  We  arrived  at  the  starting- 
place  just  twenty-four  hours  after  we  had  left  it ! 

9 


(Roc8j>  QUounfain  TUontorfanb 

Mountain-climbing  is  not  a  good  line  of  activ- 
ity for  an  invalid  or  for  one  who  shies  at  the 
edge  of  a  precipice,  or  for  any  one,  either,  who 
worries  over  the  possible  fate  of  his  family  while 
he  is  on  a  narrow  ledge.  Altitude,  the  great 
bugbear  to  many,  is  the  scapegoat  for  a  mul- 
titude of  sins.  ''Feeling  the  altitude"  would 
often  be  more  correctly  expressed  as  feeling  the 
effects  of  high  living!  The  ill  effects  of  altitude 
are  mostly  imaginary.  True,  climbing  high  into 
a  brighter,  finer  atmosphere  diminishes  the 
elastic  clasp  —  the  pressure  of  the  air  —  and 
causes  physiological  changes.  These  usually 
are  beneficial.  Climbers  who  become  ill  through 
mountain-climbing  would  also  become  ill  in  hill- 
climbing.  In  the  overwhelming  number  of  cases 
the  lowland  visitor  is  permanently  benefited  by 
a  visit  to  the  mountains  and  especially  by  a 
climb  in  the  heights. 

Mountain-sickness,  with  its  nausea,  first 
comes  to  those  who  are  bilious,  or  to  those  who 
are  hurrying  or  exerting  themselves  more  than 
usual.  A  slight  stomach  disorder  invites  this 
nausea,  and  on  the  heights  those  who  have  not 

10 


(Boing  to  i$t  £op 

been  careful  of  diet,  or  those  who  celebrated  the 
climb  the  evening  before  it  was  made,  are  pretty 
certain  to  find  out  just  how  mountain-sickness 
afflicts.  Altitude  has,  I  think,  but  little  to  do 
with  bringing  on  so-called  mountain-sickness. 
It  is  almost  identical  with  sea-sickness,  and  just 
as  quickly  forces  the  conclusion  that  life  is  not 
worth  living!  Usually  a  hot  drink,  rest,  and 
warmth  will  cure  it  in  a  short  time. 

Clarence  King  in  his  "Mountaineering  in  the 
Sierra  Nevada"  says  concerning  the  effects  of 
altitude,  "All  the  while  I  made  my  instrumental 
observations  the  fascination  of  the  view  so  held 
me  that  I  felt  no  surprise  at  seeing  water  boiling 
over  our  little  faggot  blaze  at  a  temperature  of 
one  hundred  and  ninety-two  degrees  F.,  nor 
in  observing  the  barometrical  column  stand  at 
17.99  inches;  and  it  was  not  till  a  week  or  so 
after  that  I  realized  we  had  felt  none  of  the  con- 
ventional sensations  of  nausea,  headache,  and 
I  don't  know  what  all,  that  people  are  supposed 
to  suffer  at  extreme  altitudes;  but  these  things 
go  with  guides  and  porters,  I  believe." 

Altitude  commonly  stimulates  the  slow  tongue, 

11 


(Jtocfig  (Mountain  Tftonberfanb 

and  in  the  heights  many  reserved  people  be- 
come talkative  and  even  confiding.  This,  along 
with  the  natural  sociability  of  such  a  trip,  the 
scenery,  and  the  many  excitements,  usually 
ripens  acquaintances  with  amazing  rapidity. 
Lifelong  friendships  have  commenced  on  the 
trail,  and  many  a  lovely  romance,  too.  One  day 
two  young  people  met  for  the  first  time  in  one 
of  my  climbing  parties.  Thirty  days  afterward 
they  were  married,  and  they  have  lived  happily 
to  date. 

In  one  climb  a  chaperon  gave  out  and 
promptly  demanded  that  two  young  sweet- 
hearts turn  back.  As  we  moved  on  without  the 
chaperon,  she  called  down  upon  my  head  the 
curses  of  all  the  gods  at  once!  In  order  to  save 
the  day  it  is  sometimes  necessary  for  the  guide 
to  become  an  autocrat.  Occasionally  a  climber 
is  not  susceptible  to  suggestion  and  will  obey 
only  the  imperative  mood.  A  guide  is  some- 
times compelled  to  stop  rock-rolling,  or  to  say 
"No!"  to  a  plucky  but  sick  climber  who  is 
eager  to  go  on.  A  terrible  tongue-lashing  came 
to  me  one  day  from  a  young  lady  because  of  my 

12 


(Botng  to  t$t  £op 

refusal  to  go  farther  after  she  had  fainted.  She 
went  forward  alone  for  half  an  hour  while  I  sat 
watching  from  a  commanding  crag.  Presently 
she  came  to  a  narrow  unbanistered  ledge  that 
overhung  eternity.  She  at  once  retreated  and 
came  back  with  a  smile,  saying  that  the  spot 
where  she  had  turned  back  would  enable  any 
one  to  comprehend  the  laws  of  falling  bodies. 

Occasionally  a  climber  became  hysterical  and 
I  had  my  hands  full  keeping  the  afflicted  within 
bounds.  Mountain  ledges  are  not  good  places 
for  hysterical  performances.  One  day,  when  a 
reverend  gentleman  and  his  two  daughters  were 
nearing  the  top,  the  young  ladies  and  myself 
came  out  upon  the  Narrows  a  few  lengths  ahead 
of  their  father.  The  ladies  were  almost  ex- 
hausted and  were  climbing  on  sheer  nerve.  The 
stupendous  view  revealed  from  the  Narrows 
overwhelmed  them,  and  both  became  hysterical 
at  once.  It  was  no  place  for  ceremony;  and  as 
it  was  rather  cramped  for  two  performances  at 
once,  I  pushed  the  feet  from  beneath  one  young 
lady,  tripped  the  other  on  top  of  her,  —  and  sat 
down  on  both!    They  struggled,  laughed,  and 

13 


(gocRg  (mountain  T&on&ttfonb 

cried,  and  had  just  calmed  down  when  the  father 
came  round  the  rocks  upon  us.  His  face  vividly 
and  swiftly  expressed  three  or  four  kinds  of 
anger  before  he  grasped  the  situation.  Fearing 
that  he  might  jump  on  me  in  turn,  or  that  he 
might  "get  them"  too,  I  watched  him  without 
a  word.  Finally  he  took  in  the  entire  situation, 
and  said  with  a  smile,  "Well,  I  don't  know 
whether  it's  my  move  or  not!" 

Twice,  while  guiding,  I  broke  my  lifelong  rule 
never  to  take  a  tip.  One  tip  had  with  it  a  sur- 
prise to  redeem  the  taking.  It  came  from  the 
gentleman  who  had  organized  the  party.  On 
the  way  up  he  begged  leave  to  set  the  pace  and 
to  lead  the  party  to  the  top.  He  appeared  sensi- 
ble, but  I  made  a  blunder  by  consenting  to  the 
arrangement,  for  his  pace  was  too  rapid,  and 
at  Keyhole  he  was  attacked  by  nausea.  He 
pluckily  insisted  that  we  go  on  to  the  summit 
and  leave  him  behind.  It  was  five  hours  before 
we  returned  to  him.  For  two  hours  he  had  lain 
helpless  in  a  cold  rain  and  was  badly  chilled. 
He  was  so  limp  and  loose-jointed  that  it  was 
difficult  to  carry  him  across  the  moraine  called 

14 


k. 


Ml  I 


V)   .'"  / 


mm 


THE    NARROWS,    LONG'S    PEAK   TRAIL 

(Figures  of  climbers  can  be  made  out  on  the  trail) 


(Boing  to  tfyt  £op 

Boulderfield.  At  the  Inn  the  following  morning 
he  was  completely  restored.  I  was  still  so  ex- 
hausted from  getting  him  down  that  when  he 
insisted  that  he  be  allowed  to  give  me  a  tip  in 
addition  to  the  guiding  fee  I  agreed  to  accept 
it.  The  instant  I  had  consented  it  occurred  to 
me  that  a  tip  from  a  millionaire  for  the  saving 
of  his  life  would  be  worth  while.  I  was  startled 
when,  with  a  satisfied  expression,  he  handed 
me  twenty-five  cents! 

Early  one  season,  before  the  ice  had  melted, 
one  of  my  five  climbers  met  with  an  accident 
in  one  of  the  most  dangerous  places  along  the 
way.  We  were  descending,  and  I  was  in  front, 
watching  each  one  closely  as  he  crossed  a  nar- 
row and  extremely  steep  tongue  of  ice.  The 
gentleman  who  brought  up  the  rear  was  a  good 
climber  when  not  talking;  but  this  time  he  was 
chattering  away  and  failed  to  notice  me  when 
I  signaled  him  for  silence  while  each  climber, 
in  turn,  carefully  crossed  the  steep  ice  in  the 
footholds  chopped  for  that  purpose.  Still  talk- 
ing, he  stepped  out  on  the  ice  without  looking 
and  missed  the  foothold!    Both  feet  shot  from 

i5 


(RocRj)  (piounfain  T27onbetfanb 

beneath  him,  and  down    the  smooth,  deadly 
steep  he  plunged. 

Early  in  guiding  I  had  considered  the  danger- 
ous places  and  planned  just  where  to  stand  while 
the  climbers  passed  them  and  just  what  to  do  in 
case  of  accident.  When  an  accident  actually 
occurred,  it  was  a  simple  matter  to  go  through  a 
ticklish  grand-stand  performance  that  had  been 
practiced  dozens  of  times,  and  which  for  years 
I  had  been  ready  to  put  into  effect.  The  instant 
he  slipped,  I  made  a  quick  leap  for  a  point  of 
rock  that  barely  pierced  the  steep  ice-tongue. 
This  ice  was  steeper  than  half  pitch.  He  shot 
down,  clawing  desperately  and  helplessly,  with 
momentum  sufficient  to  knock  over  half  a  dozen 
men.  There  was  just  time  to  grab  him  by  the 
coat  as  he  shot  by  the  rock.  Bracing  with  all 
my  might  to  hold  him  for  a  fraction  of  a  second 
so  as  to  divert  him  and  point  him  at  an  angle 
off  the  ice,  I  jumped  upward  as  the  violent  jerk 
came.  We  went  off  as  it  were  on  a  tangent,  and 
landed  in  a  heap  upon  the  stones,  several  yards 
below  the  spot  from  which  I  had  leaped  to  the 
rescue.   His  life  was  saved. 

16 


(Boing  to  t$t  £op 


The  last  season  of  my  guiding  career  was  a  full 
one.  Thirty-two  ascents  were  made  during  the 
thirty-one  days  of  August.  Half  a  dozen  of  these 
were  by  moonlight.  In  addition  to  these  climbs 
a  daily  round  trip  was  made  to  Estes  Park, 
eight  miles  distant  and  fifteen  hundred  feet 
down  the  mountain.  These  Estes  Park  trips 
commonly  were  made  on  horseback,  though  a 
few  were  by  wagon.  My  busiest  day  was 
crowded  with  two  wagon  trips  and  one  horse- 
back trip  to  Estes  Park,  then  a  moonlight  climb 
to  the  summit.  In  a  sixty-hour  stretch  I  did 
not  have  any  sleep  or  take  any  food.  Being 
in  condition  for  the  work  and  doing  it  easily, 
I  was  in  excellent  shape  when  the  guiding 
ended. 

The  happiest  one  of  my  two  hundred  and 
fifty-seven  guiding  experiences  on  the  rugged 
granite  trail  of  this  peak  was  with  Harriet 
Peters,  a  little  eight-year-old  girl,  the  youngest 
child  who  has  made  the  climb.  She  was  alert  and 
obedient,  enjoyed  the  experience,  and  reached 
the  top  without  a  slip  or  a  stumble,  and  with 
but  little  assistance  from  me.    It  was  pleasant 

17 


(Rocfty  (Mountain  Ti?onberfcmb 

to  be  with  her  on  the  summit,  listening  to  her 
comments  and  hearing  her  childlike  questions. 
I  have  told  the  whole  story  of  this  climb  in 
"Wild  Life  on  the  Rockies." 

Thoughtfulness  and  deliberation  are  essen- 
tials of  mountain-climbing.  Climb  slowly. 
Look  before  stepping.  Ease  down  off  boulders; 
a  jump  may  jar  or  sprain.  Enjoy  the  scenery 
and  do  most  of  your  talking  while  at  rest.  Think 
of  the  fellow  lower  down.  A  careful  diet  and 
training  beforehand  will  make  the  climb  easier 
and  far  more  enjoyable. 

Tyndall  has  said  that  a  few  days  of  moun- 
tain-climbing will  burn  all  the  effete  matter 
out  of  the  system.  In  climbing,  the  stagnant 
blood  is  circulated  and  refined,  the  lungs  are  ex- 
ercised, every  cell  is  cleansed,  and  all  parts  are 
disinfected  by  the  pure  air.  Climbing  a  high 
peak  occasionally  will  not  only  postpone  death 
but  will  give  continuous  intensity  to  the  joy  of 
living.  Every  one  might  well  climb  at  least  one 
high  peak,  and  for  those  leaving  high  school  or 
college,  the  post-graduate  work  of  climbing  a 
rugged  peak  might  be  a  more  informative  ex- 

18 


(Botng  to  t$t  £op 

perience  or  a  more  helpful  test  for  living  than 
any  examination  or  the  writing  of  a  thesis. 

Scenery,  like  music,  is  thought-compelling 
and  gives  one  a  rare  combination  of  practical 
and  poetical  inspiration.  Along  with  moun- 
tain-climbing, scenery  shakes  us  free  from  our- 
selves and  the  world.  From  new  grand  heights 
one  often  has  the  strange  feeling  that  he  has 
looked  upon  these  wondrous  scenes  before;  and 
on  the  crest  one  realizes  the  full  meaning  of 
John  Muir's  exhortation  to  "climb  the  moun- 
tains and  get  their  good  tidings!" 


T3?ift>  (mountain  ^fytep 


TOfb  (lUouttMn  Mfyty 

One  day  in  Glacier  Gorge,  Colorado,  I  was 
astonished  to  see  a  number  of  sheep  start 
to  descend  the  precipitous  eastern  face  of 
Thatch-Top  Mountain.  This  glaciated  wall, 
only  a  few  degrees  off  the  perpendicular,  rises 
comparatively  smooth  for  several  hundred  feet. 
Down  they  came,  slowly,  with  absolute  com- 
posure, over  places  I  dared  not  even  try  to  de- 
scend. The  nearness  of  the  sheep  and  the  use 
of  field-glasses  gave  me  excellent  views  of  the 
many  ways  in  which  they  actually  seemed  to 
court  danger. 

It  is  intensely  thrilling  to  watch  a  leaping 
exhibition  of  one  of  these  heavy,  agile,  alert, 
and  athletic  animals.  Down  precipitous  places 
he  plunges  head  foremost,  turning  and  check- 
ing himself  as  he  descends  by  striking  his  feet 
against  walls  and  projections  —  perhaps  a 
dozen  times  —  before  alighting  on  a  ledge  for 

23 


(Roc6j>  (THounfain  T3?onberfan& 

a  full  stop.  From  this  he  walks  overboard  and 
repeats  the  wild  performance! 

Wild  mountain  sheep  are  perhaps  the  most 
accomplished  and  dare-devil  acrobats  in  the 
animal  world.  They  are  indifferent  to  the  depths 
beneath  as  they  go  merrily  along  canon-walls. 
The  chamois  and  the  wild  mountain  goat  may 
equal  them  in  climbing  among  the  crags  and 
peaks,  but  in  descending  dizzy  precipices  and 
sheer  walls  the  bighorn  sheep  are  unrivaled. 
When  sheep  hurriedly  descend  a  precipice,  the 
laws  of  falling  bodies  are  given  a  most  spectac- 
ular display,  and  the  possibilities  of  friction  and 
adhesion  are  tested  to  the  utmost. 

A  heavily  horned  ram  led  the  way  down 
Thatch-Top.  He  was  followed  by  two  young 
rams  and  a  number  of  ewes,  with  two  small  lambs 
in  the  rear.  They  were  in  single  file,  each  well 
separated  from  the  others.  Down  this  frightful 
wall  the  lambs  appeared  to  be  going  to  certain 
death.  At  times  they  all  followed  the  contour 
round  small  spurs  or  in  niches.  In  places,  from 
my  point  of  view  they  appeared  to  be  flattened 
against  the  wall  and  descending  head  foremost. 

24 


Ttftfo  (mountain  £$eq> 

There  was  one  long  pitch  that  offered  noth- 
ing on  which  to  stand  and  no  place  on  which  to 
stop.  Down  this  the  old  ram  plunged  with  a 
series  of  bouncing  drops  and  jumps,  —  falling 
under  control,  with  his  fall  broken,  checked, 
and  directed,  without  stopping,  by  striking  with 
the  feet  as  frequently  as  was  necessary.  First 
came  three  or  four  straightforward  bouncing 
dives,  followed  by  a  number  of  swift  zigzag 
jumps,  striking  alternately  right  and  left,  then 
three  or  four  darts  to  the  right  before  again 
flying  off  to  the  left.  At  last  he  struck  on  a  wide 
ledge,  where  he  pulled  up  and  stopped  with 
masterly  resistance  and  stiff-legged  jumps! 
Mind  controlled  matter!  This  specialty  of  the 
sheep  requires  keen  eyesight,  instant  decision, 
excellent  judgment,  a  marvelous  nicety  in 
measuring  distances,  and  a  complete  forgetful- 
ness  of  peril.  Each  ewe  in  turn  gave  a  simi- 
lar and  equally  striking  exhibition;  while  the 
lambs,  instead  of  breaking  their  necks  in  the 
play  of  drop  and  bounce,  did  not  appear  to  be 
even  cautious.  They  showed  off  by  dropping 
farther  and   going  faster  than  the   old   o.nes! 

25 


This  was  sheer  frolic  for  these  children  of  the 
crags. 

Down  a  vertical  gulley  —  a  giant  chimney 
with  one  side  out  —  they  went  hippety-hop 
from  side  to  side,  and  at  the  bottom,  without 
a  stop,  dropped  fifteen  feet  to  a  wide  bench 
below.  The  ram  simply  dived  off,  with  front 
feet  thrust  forward  and  with  hind  feet  drawn  up 
and  forward,  and  apparently  struck  with  all 
four  feet  at  once.  A  number  of  others  followed 
in  such  rapid  succession  that  they  appeared  to 
be  falling  out  of  the  air.  Each,  however,  made 
it  a  point  to  land  to  the  right  or  the  left  of  the 
one  it  was  following.  Two  ewes  turned  broad- 
side to  the  wall  as  they  went  over  and  dropped 
vertically,  —  stiff-legged,  back  horizontal,  and 
with  head  held  well  up.  The  lambs  leaped  over- 
board simultaneously  only  a  second  behind  the 
rear  ewe,  each  lamb  coming  to  a  stop  with  the 
elastic  bounce  of  youth. 

Beneath  this  bench  where  all  had  paused,  the 
wall  was  perilously  steep  for  perhaps  one  hun- 
dred feet.  A  moment  after  the  lambs  landed, 
the  ram  followed  the  bench  round  the  wall  for 

26 


several  yards,  then  began  to  descend  the  steep 
wall  by  tacking  back  and  forth  on  broken  and 
extremely  narrow  ledges,  with  many  footholds 
barely  two  inches  wide.  He  was  well  down, 
when  he  missed  his  footing  and  fell.  He  tumbled 
outward,  turned  completely  over,  and,  after  a 
fall  of  about  twenty  feet,  struck  the  wall  glan- 
cingly,  at  the  same  time  thrusting  his  feet  against 
it  as  though  trying  to  right  himself.  A  patch  of 
hair  —  and  perhaps  skin  —  was  left  clinging  to 
the  wall.  A  few  yards  below  this,  while  falling 
almost  head  first,  he  struck  a  slope  with  all  four 
feet  and  bounded  wildly  outward,  but  with 
checked  speed.  He  dropped  on  a  ledge,  where 
with  the  utmost  effort  he  regained  control  of  him- 
self and  stopped,  with  three  or  four  stiff  plunges 
and  a  slide.  From  there  he  trotted  over  easy 
ways  and  moderate  slopes  to  the  bottom,  where 
he  stood  a  while  trembling,  then  lay  down. 

One  by  one  his  flock  came  down  in  good 
order.  The  leaps  of  flying  squirrels  and  the 
clever  gymnastic  pranks  of  monkeys  are  tame 
shows  compared  with  the  wild  feats  of  these 
masters  of  the  crags. 

27 


(Rocfip  QWounfatn  TUonfcerfanb 

The  flock,  after  playing  and  feeding  about  for 
an  hour  or  more,  started  to  return.  The  in- 
jured leader  lay  quietly  on  the  grass,  but  with 
head  held  bravely  erect.  The  two  lambs  raced 
ahead  and  started  to  climb  the  precipice  over 
the  route  they  had  come  down.  One  ewe  went 
to  the  bottom  of  the  wall,  then  turned  to  look 
at  the  big-horned  leader  who  lay  still  upon  the 
grass.  She  waited.  The  lambs,  plainly  eager 
to  go  on  up,  also  waited.  Presently  the  ram 
rose  with  an  effort  and  limped  heavily  away. 
There  was  blood  on  his  side.  He  turned  aside 
from  the  precipice  and  led  the  way  back  toward 
the  top  by  long  easy  slopes.  The  flock  slowly 
followed.  The  lambs  looked  at  each  other  and 
hesitated  for  some  time.  Finally  they  leaped 
down  and  raced  rompingly  after  the  others. 

The  massive  horns  of  the  rams,  along  with 
the  audacious  dives  that  sheep  sometimes  make 
on  precipices,  probably  suggested  the  story  that 
sheep  jump  off  a  cliff  and  effectively  break  the 
shock  of  the  fall  by  landing  on  their  horns  at 
the  bottom!  John  Charles  Fremont  appears  to 
have  started  this  story  in  print.   Though  sheep 

28 


TDith  (mountain  gfyttp 

do  not  alight  on  their  horns,  this  story  is  still 
in  circulation  and  is  too  widely  believed.  Every 
one  with  whom  I  have  talked  who  has  seen 
sheep  land  after  a  leap  says  that  the  sheep  land 
upon  their  feet.  I  have  seen  this  performance 
a  number  of  times,  and  on  a  few  occasions  there 
were  several  sheep ;  and  each  and  all  came  down 
feet  first.  Incidentally  I  have  seen  two  rams 
come  down  a  precipice  and  strike  on  their  horns; 
but  they  did  not  rise  again !  The  small  horns  of 
the  ewes  would  offer  no  shock-breaking  resist- 
ance if  alighted  upon;  yet  the  ewes  rival  the 
rams  in  making  precipitous  plunges. 

The  sheep  is  the  only  animal  that  has  cir- 
cling horns.  In  rams  these  rise  from  the  top  of 
the  head  and  grow  upward,  outward,  and  back- 
ward, then  curve  downward  and  forward.  Com- 
monly the  circle  is  complete  in  four  or  five 
years.  This  circular  tendency  varies  with 
locality.  In  mature  rams  the  horns  are  from 
twenty  to  forty  inches  long,  measured  round 
the  curve,  and  have  a  basic  circumference  of 
twelve  to  eighteen  inches.  The  largest  horn  I 
ever  measured  was  at  the  base  nineteen  and  a 

29 


(Rocfy)  (tttounfain  TUontorfonb 

half  inches  in  circumference.  This  was  of  the 
Colorado  bighorn  species,  and  at  the  time  of 
measurement  the  owner  had  been  dead  about 
two  months.  The  horns  of  the  ewes  are  small, 
and  extend  upward,  pointing  slightly  outward 
and  backward. 

The  wildest  leap  I  ever  saw  a  sheep  take  was 
made  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  a  few  miles 
northwest  of  Long's  Peak.  In  climbing  down 
a  precipice  I  rounded  a  point  near  the  bottom 
and  came  upon  a  ram  at  the  end  of  the  ledge  I 
was  following.  Evidently  he  had  been  lying 
down,  looking  upon  the  scenes  below.  The 
ledge  was  narrow  and  it  ended  just  behind  the 
ram,  who  faced  me  only  five  or  six  feet  away. 
He  stamped  angrily,  struck  an  attitude  of  fight, 
and  shook  his  head  as  if  to  say,  "I've  half  a 
mind  to  butt  you  overboard!"  He  could  have 
butted  an  ox  overboard.  My  plan  was  to  fling 
myself  beneath  a  slight  overhang  of  wall  on  the 
narrow  ledge  between  us  if  he  made  a  move. 

While  retreating  backward  along  almost 
nothing  of  a  ledge  and  considering  the  wisdom 
of  keeping  my  eyes  on  the  ram,  he  moved,  and 

30 


1Wft>  (mountain  £$eep 

I  flung  myself  beneath  the  few  inches  of  pro- 
jecting wall.  The  ram  simply  made  a  wild  leap 
off  the  ledge. 

This  looked  like  a  leap  to  death.  He  plunged 
down  at  an  angle  to  the  wall,  head  forward  and 
a  trifle  lower  than  the  rump,  with  feet  drawn 
upward  and  thrust  forward.  I  looked  over  the 
edge,  hoping  he  was  making  a  record  jump. 
The  first  place  he  struck  was  more  than  twenty 
feet  below  me.  When  the  fore  feet  struck,  his 
shoulder  blades  jammed  upward  as  though  they 
would  burst  through  the  skin.  A  fraction  of  a 
second  later  his  hind  feet  also  struck  and  his 
back  sagged  violently;  his  belly  must  have 
scraped  the  slope.  He  bounded  upward  and 
outward  like  a  heavy  chunk  of  rubber.  This 
contact  had  checked  his  deadly  drop  and  his 
second  striking-place  was  on  a  steeply  inclined 
buttress;  apparently  in  his  momentary  contact 
with  this  he  altered  his  course  with  a  kicking 
action  of  the  feet. 

There  was  lightning-like  foot  action,  and 
from  this  striking-place  he  veered  off  and  came 
down    violently,    feet    first,    upon    a    shelf    of 

3i 


(Roc&}>  (ttlounf ain  JDonUxtarti 

granite.  With  a  splendid  show  of  physical 
power,  and  with  desperate  effort,  he  got  him- 
self to  a  stand  with  stiff-legged,  sliding  bounds 
along  the  shelf.  Here  he  paused  for  a  second, 
then  stepped  out  of  sight  behind  a  rock  point. 
Feeling  that  he  must  be  crippled,  I  hurriedly 
scrambled  up  and  out  on  a  promontory  from 
which  to  look  down  upon  him.  He  was  trot- 
ting down  a  slope  without  even  the  sign  of  a 
limp! 

Sheep  do  sometimes  slip,  misjudge  a  dis- 
tance, and  fall.  Usually  a  bad  bruise,  a  wrenched 
joint,  or  a  split  hoof  is  the  worst  injury,  though 
now  and  then  one  receives  broken  legs  or  ribs, 
or  even  a  broken  neck.  Most  accidents  appear 
to  befall  them  while  they  are  fleeing  through 
territory  with  which  they  are  unacquainted. 
In  strange  places  they  are  likely  to  have  trouble 
with  loose  stones,  or  they  may  be  compelled  to 
leap  without  knowing  the  nature  of  the  land- 
ing-place. 

A  sheep,  like  a  rabbit  or  a  fox,  does  his  great- 
est work  in  evading  pursuers  in  territory  with 
which  he  is  intimately  acquainted.    If  closely 

32 


T£ift>  (mountain  |$eep 

pursued  in  his  own  territory,  he  will  flee  at  high 
speed  up  or  down  a  precipice,  perform  seem- 
ingly impossible  feats,  and  triumphantly  escape. 
But  no  matter  how  skillful,  if  he  goes  his  ut- 
most in  a  new  territory,  he  is  as  likely  to  come 
to  grief  as  an  orator  who  attempts  to  talk  on  a 
subject  with  which  he  is  not  well  acquainted. 
It  is  probable  that  most  of  the  accidents  to 
these  masters  of  the  crags  occur  when  they  are 
making  a  desperate  retreat  through  strange 
precipitous  territory. 

In  the  Elk  Mountains  a  flock  of  sheep  were 
driven  far  from  their  stamping-ground  and  while 
in  a  strange  country  were  fired  upon  and  pur- 
sued by  hunters.  They  fled  up  a  peak  they  had 
not  before  climbed.  The  leader  leaped  upon  a 
rock  that  gave  way.  He  tumbled  off  with  the 
rock  on  top.  He  fell  upon  his  back  —  to  rise  no 
more.  A  ewe  missed  her  footing  and  in  her  fall 
knocked  two  others  over  to  their  death,  though 
she  regained  her  footing  and  escaped. 

One  day  a  ram  appeared  on  a  near-by  sky- 
line and  crossed  along  the  top  of  a  shattered 
knife-edge  of  granite.   The  gale  had  driven  me 

33 


(£oc6g  QUounfain  TPontotfanfc 

to  shelter,  but  along  he  went,  unmindful  of  the 
gale  that  was  ripping  along  the  crags  and  knock- 
ing things  right  and  left.  Occasionally  he  made 
a  long  leap  from  point  to  point.  Now  and  then 
he  paused  to  look  into  the  canon  far  below.  On 
the  top  of  the  highest  pinnacle  he  stopped  and 
became  a  splendid  statue.  Presently  he  rounded 
a  spur  within  fifty  feet  of  me  and  commenced 
climbing  diagonally  up  a  wall  that  appeared 
almost  vertical  and  smooth.  My  glass  showed 
that  he  was  walking  along  a  mere  crack  in  the 
rock,  where  footholds  existed  mostly  in  im- 
agination. On  this  place  he  would  stop  and 
scratch  with  one  hind  foot  and  then  rub  the  end 
of  a  horn  against  the  wall! 

As  he  went  on  up,  the  appearance  was  like 
a  stage  effect,  as  though  he  were  sustained  by 
wires.  At  the  end  of  the  crack  he  reared, 
hooked  his  fore  feet  over  a  rough  point,  and 
drew  himself  up  like  an  athlete,  with  utter  in- 
difference to  the  two  hundred  feet  of  drop  be- 
neath him.  From  this  point  he  tacked  back  and 
forth  until  he  had  ascended  to  the  bottom  of  a 
vertical  gully,  which  he  easily  mastered  with 

34 


TWto  (mountain  £0eep 

a  series  of  zigzag  jumps.  In  some  of  these  he 
leaped  several  feet  almost  horizontally  to  gain 
a  few  inches  vertically.  Occasionally  he  leaped 
up  and  struck  with  his  feet  in  a  place  where  he 
could  not  stand,  but  from  which  he  leaped  to  a 
place  more  roomy.  His  feet  slipped  as  he  landed 
from  one  high  jump;  instantly  he  pushed  him- 
self off  backward  and  came  down  feet  foremost 
on  the  narrow  place  from  which  he  had  just 
leaped.   He  tried  again  and  succeeded. 

The  edges  of  sheep's  hoofs  are  hard,  while  the 
back  part  of  the  bottom  is  a  rubbery,  gristly 
pad,  which  holds  well  on  smooth,  steep  sur- 
faces. Cooperating  with  these  excellent  feet 
are  strong  muscles,  good  eyes,  and  keen  wits. 

Wild  sheep  are  much  larger  than  tame  ones. 
They  are  alert,  resourceful,  and  full  of  energy. 
Among  the  Colorado  bighorns  the  rams  are 
from  thirty-eight  to  forty-two  inches  high,  and 
weigh  from  two  hundred  to  three  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds.  The  ewes  are  a  third  smaller. 
The  common  color  is  grayish  brown,  with  under 
parts  and  inside  of  the  legs  white.  In  the  north 
there  is  one  pure-white  species,  while  on  neigh- 

35 


(Rocfy)  (piounfain  TUonbttfcmb 

boring  ranges  there  is  a  black  species.  Though 
wild  sheep  usually  follow  a  leader,  each  one  is 
capable  of  independent  action.  Tame  sheep  are 
stupid  and  silly;  wild  sheep  are  wide-awake  and 
courageous.  Tame  sheep  are  dirty  and  smelly, 
while  wild  sheep  are  as  well-groomed  and  clean 
as  the  cliffs  among  which  they  live. 

In  discussing  wild  life  many  people  fail  to 
discriminate  between  the  wild  sheep  and  the 
wild  goats.  The  goat  has  back-curving  spike 
horns  and  a  beard  that  makes  the  face  every 
inch  a  goat's.  Though  of  unshapely  body  and 
awkward  gait,  his  ungainliness  intensified  by 
his  long  hair,  the  goat  is  a  most  skillful  climber. 
The  sheep  excel  him  for  speed,  grace,  and,  per- 
haps, alertness. 

It  is  believed  that  the  three  or  four  species  of 
sheep  found  in  the  wilds  of  America  had  their 
origin  in  Asia.  In  appearance  and  habits  they 
bear  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  sheep  which 
now  inhabit  the  Asiatic  mountains. 

Wild  sheep  are  found  in  Alaska,  western 
Canada,  and  the  United  States  west  of  the 
Plains,  and  extend  a  short  distance  down  into 

36 


TUifo  (mountain  $$ttp 

Mexico.  Most  flocks  in  the  Sierra  and  the 
Rocky  Mountains  live  above  the  timber-line  and 
at  an  altitude  of  twelve  thousand  feet.  Winter 
quarters  in  these  high  stamping-grounds  appear 
to  be  chosen  in  localities  where  the  high  winds 
prevent  a  deep  accumulation  of  snow.  This 
snow-removal  decreases  the  danger  of  becoming 
snowbound  and  usually  enables  the  sheep  to 
obtain  food. 

Their  warm,  thick  under  covering  of  fine  wool 
protects  them  from  the  coldest  blasts.  During 
storms  the  sheep  commonly  huddle  together  to 
the  leeward  of  a  cliff.  Sometimes  they  stand 
thus  for  days  and  are  completely  drifted  over. 
At  the  close  of  the  storm  the  stronger  ones  lead 
and  buck  their  way  out  through  the  snow. 
Occasionally  a  few  weak  ones  perish,  and  oc- 
casionally, too,  a  mountain  lion  appears  while 
the  flock  is  almost  helpless  in  the  snow. 

Excursions  from  their  mountain-top  homes 
are  occasionally  made  into  the  lowlands.  In  the 
spring  they  go  down  early  for  green  stuff,  which 
comes  first  to  the  lowlands.  They  go  to  salt 
licks,  for  a  ramble,  for  a  change  of  food,  and  for 

37 


(Roc%  (mounfoin  T3?onberfcmb 

the  fun  of  it.  The  duration  of  these  excursions 
may  be  a  few  hours  or  several  days. 

Most  of  the  time  the  full-grown  rams  form 
one  flock;  the  ewes  and  youngsters  flock  by 
themselves.  Severe  storms  or  harassing  enemies 
may  briefly  unite  these  flocks.  One  hundred 
and  forty  is  the  largest  flock  I  ever  counted. 
This  was  in  June,  on  Specimen  Mountain,  Colo- 
rado; and  the  sheep  had  apparently  assembled 
for  the  purpose  of  licking  salty,  alkaline  earth 
near  the  top  of  this  mountain.  Wild  sheep  ap- 
pear to  have  an  insatiable  craving  for  salt  and 
will  travel  a  day's  journey  to  obtain  it.  Occa- 
sionally they  will  cross  a  high,  broken  moun- 
tain-range and  repeatedly  expose  themselves 
to  danger,  in  order  to  visit  a  salt  lick. 

The  young  lambs,  one  or  two  at  a  birth,  are 
usually  born  about  the  first  of  May  in  the 
alpine  heights  above  timber-line.  What  a 
wildly  royal  and  romantic  birthplace!  The 
strange  world  spreading  far  below  and  far  away; 
crags,  snowdrifts,  brilliant  flowers,  —  a  hanging 
wild  garden,  with  the  ptarmigan  and  the  rosy 
finches  for  companions!    The  mother  has  sole 

38 


1Wft>  (mountain  gfyttp 

care  of  the  young;  for  several  weeks  she  must 
guard  them  from  hungry  foxes,  eagles,  and 
lions.  Once  I  saw  an  eagle  swoop  and  strike  a 
lamb.  Though  the  lamb  was  knocked  heels  over 
head,  the  blow  was  not  fatal.  The  eagle  wheeled 
to  strike  again,  but  the  mother  leaped  up  and 
shielded  the  wounded  lamb.  Eaglets  are  oc- 
casionally fed  on  young  lambs,  as  skulls  near 
eagle's  nests  in  the  cliffs  bear  evidence. 

A  number  of  ewes  and  lambs  one  day  came 
close  to  my  hiding-place.  One  mother  had  two 
children;  four  others  had  one  each.  An  active 
lamb  had  a  merry  time  with  his  mother,  butting 
her  from  every  angle,  rearing  up  on  his  hind 
legs  and  striking  with  his  head,  and  occasionally 
leaping  entirely  over  her.  While  she  lay  in 
dreamy  indifference,  he  practiced  long  jumps 
over  her,  occasionally  stopping  to  have  a  fierce 
fight  with  an  imaginary  rival.  Later  he  was 
joined  by  another  lamb,  and  they  proceeded  to 
race  and  romp  all  over  a  cliff,  while  the  mothers 
looked  on  with  satisfaction.  Presently  they  all 
lay  down,  and  a  number  of  magpies,  apparently 
hunting  insects,  walked  over  them. 

39 


(Koc6j>  (Wlounfoin  TUotrterfcmt) 

In  one  of  the  side  canons  on  the  Colorado  in 
Arizona,  I  was  for  a  number  of  days  close  to  a 
flock  of  wild  sheep  which  evidently  had  never 
before  seen  man.  On  their  first  view  of  me  they 
showed  marked  curiosity,  which  they  satisfied 
by  approaching  closely,  two  or  three  touching 
me  with  their  noses.  Several  times  I  walked 
among  the  flock  with  no  excitement  on  their 
part.  I  was  without  either  camera  or  gun.  The 
day  I  broke  camp  and  moved  on,  one  of  the 
ewes  followed  me  for  more  than  an  hour. 

They  become  intensely  alert  and  wild  when 
hunted ;  but  in  localities  where  they  are  not  shot 
at  they  quickly  become  semi-domestic,  often 
feeding  near  homes  of  friendly  people.  During 
the  winter  sheep  frequently  come  from  the 
heights  to  feed  near  my  cabin.  One  day,  after 
a  number  had  licked  salt  with  my  pony,  a  ram 
which  appeared  as  old  as  the  hills  walked  boldly 
by  my  cabin  within  a  few  feet  of  it,  head 
proudly  up.  After  long  acquaintance  and  many 
attempts  I  took  his  photograph  at  five  feet  and 
finally  was  allowed  to  feel  of  his  great  horns! 

A  few  years  ago  near  my  cabin  a  ram  lost  his 
40 


TMfc  (mountain  £$eep 

life  in  a  barbed-wire  fence.  He  and  a  number 
of  other  rams  had  fed,  then  climbed  to  the  top 
of  a  small  crag  by  the  roadside.  While  they  were 
there,  a  man  on  horseback  came  along.  Indif- 
ferently they  watched  him  approach;  but  when 
he  stopped  to  take  a  picture  all  but  one  fled 
in  alarm,  easily  leaping  a  shoulder-high  fence. 
After  a  minute  the  remaining  ram  became  ex- 
cited, dashed  off  to  follow  the  others,  and  ran 
into  the  fence.  He  was  hurled  backward  and 
one  of  his  curved  horns  hooked  over  a  wire. 
Finding  himself  caught,  he  surged  desperately 
to  tear  himself  free.  In  doing  this  a  barb  severed 
the  jugular  vein.  He  fell  and  freed  his  horn  from 
the  wire  in  falling.  Rising,  he  ran  for  the  crag 
from  which  he  had  just  fled,  with  his  blood 
escaping  in  great  gushes.  As  he  was  gaining  the 
top  of  the  crag  he  rolled  over  dead. 

A  flock  which  is  often  divided  into  two,  one 
of  ewes  and  one  of  rams,  lives  on  the  summit  of 
Battle  Mountain,  at  an  altitude  of  twelve  thou- 
sand feet,  about  four  miles  from  my  cabin.  I 
have  sometimes  followed  them  when  they  were 
rambling.    About   the  middle  of  one  Septem- 

4i 


ber  this  flock  united  and  moved  off  to  the 
south.  I  made  haste  to  climb  to  the  top  of  Mt. 
Meeker  so  as  to  command  most  of  their  move- 
ments. I  had  been  watching  for  several  hours 
without  even  a  glimpse  of  them.  Rising  to 
move  away,  I  surprised  them  as  they  lay  at 
rest  near-by,  a  little  below  the  summit;  and  I 
also  surprised  a  lion  that  evidently  was  sneak- 
ing up  on  them.  This  was  close  to  the  altitude 
of  fourteen  thousand  feet.  The  mountain  lion 
is  the  game-hog  of  the  heights  and  is  a  persistent 
and  insidious  foe  of  sheep.  He  kills  both  old 
and  young,  and  usually  makes  a  capture  by 
sneaking  up  on  his  victim.  Sometimes  for  hours 
he  lies  in  wait  by  a  sheep  trail. 

The  day  following  the  surprise  on  Mt. 
Meeker,  this  flock  appeared  at  timber-line 
about  three  miles  to  the  southeast.  Here  some 
hunters  fired  on  it.  As  it  fled  past  me,  I  counted, 
and  one  of  the  twenty-eight  was  missing.  The 
flock  spent  most  of  the  next  day  about  Chasm 
Lake,  just  under  the  northern  crags  of  Meeker. 
Before  night  it  was  back  at  its  old  stamping- 
ground  on  Battle  Mountain.   Early  the  following 

42 


lX>itt>  (mountain  $%tt? 

morning  the  big  ram  led  the  way  slowly  to  the 
west  on  the  northern  slope  of  Long's  Peak,  a 
little  above  timber-line. 

During  the  morning  a  grizzly  came  lumber- 
ing up  the  slope,  and  as  I  thought  he  would 
probably  intercept  the  sheep,  I  awaited  the 
next  scene  with  intense  interest.  The  bear 
showed  no  interest  in  the  sheep,  which,  in  turn, 
were  not  alarmed  by  his  approach.  Within  a 
few  yards  of  the  flock  he  concluded  to  dig  out  a 
fat  woodchuck.  The  sheep,  full  of  curiosity, 
crowded  near  to  watch  this  performance,  — 
evidently  too  near  to  suit  Mr.  Grizzly,  who 
presently  caused  a  lively  scattering  with  a 
Woof!  and  a  charge.  The  bear  returned  to  his 
digging,  and  the  sheep  proceeded  quietly  on 
their  way. 

The  flock  went  down  into  Glacier  Gorge, 
then  out  on  the  opposite  side,  climbing  to  the 
summit  of  the  Continental  Divide.  The  fol- 
lowing day  another  flock  united  with  it;  and 
just  at  nightfall  another,  composed  entirely  of 
ewes  and  lambs,  was  seen  approaching.  At  day- 
light the  following  morning  the  Battle  Moun- 

43 


(RocRp  (Wtounfain  TUontorfanfc 

tain  flock  was  by  itself  and  the  other  flocks 
nowhere  in  sight.  During  the  day  my  flock 
traveled  four  or  five  miles  to  the  north,  then, 
doubling  back,  descended  Flat-Top  Mountain, 
and  at  sundown,  after  a  day's  trip  of  about 
twenty  miles  and  a  descent  from  twelve  thou- 
sand feet  to  eight  thousand,  arrived  at  the  Mary 
Lake  salt  lick  in  Estes  Park.  Before  noon  the 
following  day  this  flock  was  on  the  Crags,  about 
three  miles  south  of  the  lake  and  at  an  altitude 
of  eleven  thousand  feet. 

Near  the  Crags  I  saw  a  fight  between  one  of 
the  rams  of  this  flock  and  one  that  ranged  about 
the  Crags.  The  start  of  this  was  a  lively  push- 
ing contest,  head  to  head.  At  each  break  there 
was  a  quick  attempt  to  strike  each  other  with 
their  horns,  which  was  followed  by  goat-like 
rearing  and  sparring.  As  they  reared  and  struck, 
or  struck  while  on  their  hind  legs,  the  aim  was 
to  hit  the  other's  nose  with  head  or  horn.  Both 
flocks  paused,  and  most  of  the  sheep  intently 
watched  the  contest. 

Suddenly  the  contestants  broke  away,  and 
each  rushed  back  a   few   yards,  then  wheeled 

44 


TT»tfb  (mountain  gfyttp 

with  a  fine  cutting  angle  and  came  at  the  other 
full  tilt.  There  was  a  smashing  head-on  col- 
lision, and  each  was  thrown  upward  and  almost 
back  on  his  haunches  by  the  force  of  the  im- 
pact. Instantly  they  wheeled  and  came  to- 
gether in  a  flying  butt.  A  number  of  times  both 
walked  back  over  the  stretch  over  which  they 
rushed  together.  It  was  a  contest  between 
battering  rams  on  legs.  Occasionally  one  was 
knocked  to  his  knees  or  was  flung  headlong. 
The  circular  arena  over  which  they  fought  was 
not  more  than  twenty-five  feet  in  diameter. 
In  the  final  head-on  butt  the  ram  of  the  Crags 
was  knocked  end  over  end;  then  he  arose  and 
trotted  away  down  the  slope,  while  the  victor, 
erect  and  motionless  as  a  statue,  stared  after 
him.  Both  were  covered  with  blood  and  dirt. 
During  the  day  the  flock  returned  to  Battle 
Mountain. 

The  following  day  this  flock  separated  into 
two  flocks,  the  youngsters  and  ewes  in  one  and 
the  old  rams  in  the  other.  At  mating-time,  early 
in  October,  the  flocks  united,  and  the  rams  had 
it  out  among  themselves.   There  were  repeated 

45 


$oc%  Qttounfain  Tft?on&<*fcmb 

fights;  sometimes  two  contests  were  in  progress 
at  once.  In  the  end  a  few  rams  were  driven  off 
without  mates,  while  three  or  four  rams  each 
led  off  from  one  to  five  ewes. 

Over  the  greater  part  of  their  range  the  wild 
mountain  sheep  are  threatened  with  extermina- 
tion. They  are  shot  for  sport  and  for  their  flesh, 
and  are  relentlessly  hunted  for  their  horns. 
But  the  mountain  sheep  are  a  valuable  asset 
to  our  country.  They  are  picturesque  and  an 
interesting  part  of  the  scenery,  an  inspiration 
to  every  one  who  sees  them. 

Says  Mary  Austin:  — 

"  But  the  wild  sheep  from  the  battered  rocks, 
Sure  foot  and  fleet  of  limb, 
Gets  up  to  see  the  stars  go  by 
Along  the  mountain  rim." 

Fortunate  is  the  locality  that  perpetuates 
its  mountain  sheep.  These  courageous  climbers 
add  much  to  the  ancient  mountains  and  snowy 
peaks;  the  arctic  wild  gardens  and  the  crags 
would  not  be  the  same  for  us  if  these  moun- 
taineers were  to  vanish  forever  from  the  heights. 


t%t  §omt  jfrxwttUt 


" 


£jk  $oxtst  §vontkv 

^Himber-line  in  the  high  mountains  of  the 
*CS  West  wakes  up  the  most  indifferent  visi- 
tor. The  uppermost  limit  of  tree-growth  shows 
nature  in  strange,  picturesque  forms,  and  is  so 
graphic  and  impressive  that  all  classes  of  visitors 
pause  to  look  in  silent  wonder.  This  is  the  forest 
frontier. 

It  appears  as  old  as  the  hills  and  as  fixed  and 
unchanging  as  they;  but,  like  every  frontier, 
that  of  the  forest  is  aggressive,  is  ever  struggling 
to  advance.  To-day  this  bold  and  definite  line 
is  the  forest's  Far  North,  its  farthest  reach  up 
the  heights;  but  this  simply  marks  where  the 
forest  is,  and  not  where  it  was  or  where  it  is 
striving  to  be.  Here  is  the  line  of  battle  be- 
tween the  woods  and  the  weather.  The  ele- 
ments are  insistent  with  "thus  far  and  no 
farther,"  but  the  trees  do  not  heed,  and  the 
relentless  elements  batter  and  defy  them  in  a 
never-ending  battle  along  the  timber-line. 

49 


(Roc%  Qtlounfain  TUonberfanb 

From  a  commanding  promontory  the  forest- 
edge  appears  like  a  great  shore-line,  as  it  sweeps 
away  for  miles  along  the  steep  and  uneven  sides 
of  the  mountains.  For  the  most  part  it  follows 
the  contour  line;  here  it  goes  far  out  round  a 
peninsula-like  headland,  there  it  sweeps  away 
to  fold  back  into  cove  or  canon  and  form  a 
forested  bay.  In  Colorado  and  California  this 
forest-line  on  the  mountains  is  at  an  altitude 
of  between  eleven  and  twelve  thousand  feet. 
Downward  from  this  line  a  heavy  robe  of  dark 
forest  drapes  the  mountains;  above  it  the  tree- 
less heights  rise  cool  and  apparently  barren,  piled 
with  old  and  eroded  snowdrifts  amid  silent  moor- 
lands and  rocky  terraces. 

The  trees  of  timber-line  are  stunted  by  cold, 
crushed  by  snow,  and  distorted  by  prolonged 
and  terrific  winds.  Many  stretches  appear  like 
growths  of  coarse  bushes  and  uncouth  vines. 
They  maintain  a  perpetual  battle,  and,  though 
crippled,  bent,  dwarfed,  and  deformed,  they 
are  stocky  and  strong  old  warriors,  determined, 
no  weaklings,  no  cowards.  They  are  crowded 
together  and  tangled,  presenting  a  united  front. 

5o 


Few  trees  in  this  forest-front  rise  to  a  greater 
height  than  twelve  feet.  The  average  height  is 
about  eight  feet,  but  the  length  of  some  of  the 
prostrate  ones  is  not  far  from  the  normal 
height.  Wind  and  other  hard  conditions  give 
a  few  trees  the  uncouth  shapes  of  prehistoric 
animals.  I  measured  a  vine-like  ichthyosaurus 
that  was  crawling  to  leeward,  flat  upon  the 
earth.  It  was  sixty-seven  feet  long,  and  close 
to  the  roots  its  body  was  thirty-eight  inches  in 
diameter.  One  cone-shaped  spruce  had  a  base 
diameter  of  four  feet  and  came  to  a  point  a  few 
inches  less  than  four  feet  above  the  earth.  Here 
and  there  a  tough,  tall  tree  manages  to  stand 
erect.  The  high  wind  either  prevents  growing 
or  trims  off  all  limbs  that  do  not  point  to  lee- 
ward. Some  appear  as  though  molded  and 
pressed  into  shape.  A  profile  of  others,  with 
long,  streaming-bannered  limbs,  gives  a  hopeful 
view,  for  they  present  an  unconquerable  and 
conscious  appearance,  like  tattered  pennants 
or  torn,  triumphant  battle-flags  of  the  victori- 
ous forest! 

The    forest    is    incessantly    aggressive    and 

5i 


Q*oc8p  (mountain  tPonberfanb 

eternally  vigilant  to  hold  its  territory  and  to 
advance.  Winds  are  its  most  terrible  and  effec- 
tive foe.  To  them  is  due  its  weird  and  pic- 
turesque front.  Occasionally  they  rage  for  days 
without  cessation,  blowing  constantly  from  the 
same  quarter  and  at  times  with  the  rending  and 
crushing  velocity  of  more  than  one  hundred 
miles  an  hour.  These  terrific  winds  frequently 
flay  the  trees  with  cutting  blasts  of  sand.  At 
times  the  wind  rolls  down  the  steeps  with  the 
crushing,  flattening  force  of  a  tidal  wave.  Many 
places  have  the  appearance  of  having  been  gone 
over  by  a  terrible  harrow  or  an  enormous  roller. 
In  some  localities  all  the  trees,  except  the  few 
protected  by  rocky  ledges  or  closely  braced  by 
their  encircling  fellows,  are  crippled  or  over- 
thrown. 

Although  I  have  visited  timber-line  in  a  num- 
ber of  States,  most  of  my  studies  have  been 
made  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Continental 
Divide  in  Colorado.  This  ragged  edge,  with  its 
ups  and  downs  and  curves,  I  have  eagerly  fol- 
lowed for  hundreds  of  miles.  Exploring  this 
during  every  month  of  the  year,   I  have  had 

52 


THE   WAV   OF   Till     WIND    AT   TIMr.KK-I.IXK 


£0*  $0Xt6t  §TQYlt\tX 

great  days  and  nights  along  the  timber-line.  It 
was  ever  good  to  be  with  these  trees  in  the  clear 
air,  up  close  to  the  wide  and  silent  sky.  Ad- 
venturers they  appeared,  strangely  wrapped  and 
enveloped  in  the  shifting  fog  of  low-drifting 
clouds.  In  the  twilight  they  were  always  groups 
and  forms  of  friendly  figures,  while  by  moon- 
light they  were  just  a  romantic  camp  of  fra- 
ternal explorers. 

Many  a  camp-fire  I  have  had  in  the  alpine 
outskirts  of  the  forest.  I  remember  especially 
one  night,  when  I  camped  alone  where  pioneer 
trees,  rusty  cliffs,  a  wild  lake-shore,  and  a  sub- 
dued, far-off  waterfall  furnished  sights  and 
sounds  as  wild  as  though  man  had  not  yet  ap- 
peared on  earth.  This  night,  for  a  time,  a  cave 
man  directed  my  imagination,  and  it  ran  riot 
in  primeval  fields.  After  indulging  these  pre- 
historic visions,  I  made  a  great  camp-fire  with 
a  monumental  pile  of  tree-trunks  and  limbs  on 
the  shore  of  the  lake,  close  to  the  cliff.  These 
slow-grown  woods  were  full  of  pitch,  and  the 
fire  was  of  such  blazing  proportions  that  it 
would  have  caused  consternation  anywhere  in 

53 


Q$oc%  Qtlounfain  T3?onbttfonl> 

Europe.  The  leaping,  eager  flames  threw  waver- 
ing lights  across  the  lake  on  the  steeply  rising 
heights  beyond.  These  brought  the  alarm  cry 
of  a  coyote,  with  many  an  answer  and  echo,  and 
the  mocking  laughter  of  a  fox. 

Even  these  wild  voices  in  the  primeval  night 
were  neither  so  strange  nor  so  eloquent  as  the 
storm-made  and  resolute  tree-forms  that  rose, 
peered,  and  vanished  where  my  firelight  fell 
and  changed. 

At  most  timber-lines  the  high  winds  always 
blow  from  one  direction.  On  the  eastern  slope 
of  the  Colorado  divide  they  are  westerly,  down 
the  mountain.  Many  of  the  trees  possess  a  long 
vertical  fringe  of  limbs  to  leeward,  being  limb- 
less and  barkless  to  stormward.  Each  might 
serve  as  an  impressive  symbolic  statue  of  a 
windstorm.  Permanently  their  limbs  stream 
to  leeward  together,  with  fixed  bends  and  dis- 
tortions as  though  changed  to  metal  in  the  height 
of  a  storm. 

Whenever  a  tree  dies  and  remains  standing, 
the  sand-blasts  speedily  erode  and  carve  its  un- 
evenly resistant  wood  into  a  totem  pole  which 

54 


£0e  §ovtBt  jfrwndtt 

bears  many  strange  embossed  pictographs.  In 
time  these  trees  are  entirely  worn  away  by  the 
violence  of  wind-blown  ice-pellets  and  the 
gnawings  of  the  sand-toothed  gales. 

Novel  effects  are  here  and  there  seen  in  long 
hedges  of  wind-trimmed  trees.  These  are 
aligned  by  the  wind.  They  precisely  parallel 
the  wind-current  and  have  grown  to  leeward 
from  the  shelter  of  a  boulder  or  other  wind- 
break. Apparently  an  adventurous  tree  makes 
a  successful  stand  behind  the  boulder;  then  its 
seeds  or  those  of  other  trees  proceed  to  form  a 
crowding  line  to  the  leeward  in  the  shelter  thus 
afforded.  Some  of  these  hedges  are  a  few  hun- 
dred feet  in  length;  rarely  are  they  more  than 
a  few  feet  high  or  wide.  At  the  front  the  sand- 
blasts trim  this  hedge  to  the  height  and  width 
of  the  wind-break.  Though  there  may  be  in 
some  a  slight,  gradual  increase  in  height  from 
the  front  toward  the  rear,  the  wind  trims  off 
adventurous  twigs  on  the  side-lines  and  keeps 
the  width  almost  uniform  throughout. 

During  the  wildest  of  winds  I  sometimes 
deliberately  spent  a  day  or  a  night  in  the  most 

55 


(Roc6j>  (mountain  TUonberfanfc 

exposed  places  at  timber-line,  protected  in  an 
elkskin  sleeping-bag.  Wildly,  grandly,  the 
surging  gusts  boomed,  ripped,  roared,  and  ex- 
ploded, as  they  struck  or  swept  on.  The  ex- 
perience was  somewhat  like  lying  in  a  diver's 
dress  on  a  beach  during  a  storm.  At  times  I  was 
struck  almost  breathless  by  an  airy  breaker,  or 
tumbled  and  kicked  indifferently  about  by  the 
unbelievable  violence  of  the  wind.  At  other 
times  I  was  dashed  with  sand  and  vigorously 
pelted  with  sticks  and  gravel. 

This  was  always  at  some  distance  from  tree, 
boulder,  or  ledge,  for  I  took  no  risks  of  being 
tossed  against  trees  or  rocks.  Many  times,  how- 
ever, I  have  lain  securely  anchored  and  shielded 
beneath  matted  tree-growths,  where  in  safety 
I  heard  the  tempestuous  booms  and  the  wildest 
of  rocket-like  swishes  of  the  impassioned  and 
invisible  ocean  of  air.  The  general  sound- 
effect  was  a  prolonged  roar,  with  an  interplay 
of  rippings  and  tumultuous  cheerings.  There 
were  explosions  and  silences.  There  were  hours 
of  Niagara.  In  the  midst  of  these  distant  roar- 
ings the  fearful  approach  of  an  advancing  gale 

56 


&§t  §QUBt  §xontkt 

could  be  heard  before  the  unseen  breaker  rolled 
down  on  me  from  the  heights. 

The  most  marked  result  of  cold  and  snow  is 
the  extreme  shortness  of  the  growing-season 
which  they  allow  the  trees.  Many  inclined 
trees  are  broken  off  by  snow,  while  others  are 
prostrated.  Though  the  trees  are  flattened 
upon  the  earth  with  a  heavy  load  for  months, 
the  snow  cover  affords  the  trees  much  protec- 
tion, from  both  the  wracking  violence  of  the 
winds  and  their  devitalizing  dryness.  I  know 
of  a  few  instances  of  the  winter  snows  piling  so 
deeply  that  the  covered  trees  were  not  un- 
covered by  the  warmth  of  the  following  sum- 
mer. The  trees  suspended  in  this  enforced 
hibernating  sleep  lost  a  summer's  fun  and  failed 
to  envelop  themselves  in  the  telltale  ring  of 
annual  growth. 

Snow  and  wind  combined  produce  acres  of 
closely  matted  growth  that  nowhere  rises  more 
than  three  feet  above  the  earth.  This  growth 
is  kept  well  groomed  by  the  gale-flung  sand, 
which  clips  persistent  twigs  and  keeps  it  closely 
trimmed  into  an  enormous   bristle  brush.    In 

57 


(RocRp  Qftounfain  TUonberfanb 

places  the  surface  of  this  will  support  a  pedes- 
trian, but  commonly  it  is  too  weak  for  this;  and, 
as  John  Muir  says,  in  getting  through,  over, 
under,  or  across  growths  of  this  kind,  one  loses 
all  of  his  temper  and  most  of  his  clothing! 

Timber-line  is  largely  determined  by  cli- 
matic limitations,  by  temperature  and  mois- 
ture. In  the  Rocky  Mountains  the  dry  winds 
are  more  deadly,  and  therefore  more  deter- 
mining, than  the  high  winds.  During  droughty 
winters  these  dry  winds  absorb  the  vital  juices 
of  hundreds  of  timber-line  trees,  whose  withered 
standing  skeletons  frequently  testify  to  the 
widespread  depredations  of  this  dry  blight.  A 
permanent  advance,  too,  is  made  from  time  to 
time.  Here  and  there  is  a  grove,  a  permanent 
settlement  ahead  of  and  above  the  main  ranks. 
In  advance  of  these  are  a  few  lone  trees,  heroes 
scouting  in  the  lead.  In  moist,  sheltered  places 
are  seedlings  and  promising  young  trees  grow- 
ing up  in  front  of  the  battle-scarred  old  guard. 
Advances  on  dry,  wind-swept  ridges  are  more 
difficult  and  much  less  frequent;  on  a  few  dry 
ridges  these  trees  have  met  with  a  repulse  and 

58 


£0e  ifomtf  §xontkx 

in  some  places  have  lost  a  little  territory,  but 
along  most  of  its  front  the  timber-line  is  slowly 
advancing  into  the  heights. 

With  this  environment  it  would  be  natural 
for  these  trees  to  evolve  more  hardiness  than 
the  present  trees  have.  This  would  mean  trees 
better  fitted  to  contend  with,  and  more  likely  to 
triumph  over,  the  harsh  conditions.  Evolu- 
tionary development  is  the  triumphing  factor 
at  the  timber-line. 

The  highest  timber-line  in  the  world  is  prob- 
ably on  Mount  Orizaba,  Mexico.  Frank  M. 
Chapman  says  that  there  are  short-leaved  pines 
(Pinus  Montezuma)  from  thirty  to  forty  feet 
high,  on  the  southern  exposure  of  this  peak  at 
an  altitude  of  about  13,800  feet.  In  Switzer- 
land, along  the  steep  and  snowy  Alps,  it  is  sixty- 
four  hundred;  on  Mt.  Washington,  about  forty- 
five  hundred  feet.  In  the  mountains  of  Colorado 
and  California  it  is  of  approximately  equal  alti- 
tude, between  eleven  and  twelve  thousand  feet. 
Advancing  northward  from  California  along  the 
timber-line,  one  enters  regions  of  heavy  snow- 
fall as  well  as  of  restricting  latitude.    Combined, 

59 


(Rocfy)  Qtlounfain  TUonberfanb 

these  speedily  lower  the  altitude  of  timber-line, 
until  on  Mt.  Rainier  it  is  below  eight  thousand 
feet.  There  is  a  noticeable  dwarfing  of  the  forest 
as  one  approaches  the  Land  of  the  Midnight 
Sun,  and  in  its  more  northerly  reaches  it  comes 
down  to  sea-level  to  form  the  Land  of  Little 
Sticks.  It  frays  out  at  its  Farthest  North  just 
within  the  Arctic  Circle.  Most  of  the  Arctic 
Ocean's  icy  waves  break  on  treeless  shores. 

Everywhere  at  timber-line  the  temperature 
is  low,  and  on  Long's  Peak  the  daily  average 
is  two  degrees  below  the  freezing-point.  At 
timber-line  snow  may  fall  any  day  of  the  year, 
and  wintry  conditions  annually  prevail  from 
nine  to  ten  months.  The  hardy  trees  which 
maintain  this  line  have  adjusted  themselves  to 
the  extremely  short  growing-season,  and  now 
and  then  mature  and  scatter  fertile  seeds.  The 
trees  that  do  heroic  service  on  all  latitudinal  and 
altitudinal  timber-lines  of  the  earth  are  mem- 
bers of  the  pine,  spruce,  fir,  birch,  willow,  and 
aspen  families.  At  timber-line  on  the  Rocky 
Mountains  there  are  three  members  each  from 
the  deciduous  trees  and  the  evergreens.   These 

60 


&§t  §omt  jficoniitt 

are  the  Engelmann  spruce,  limber  pine,  alpine 
fir,  arctic  willow,  black  birch,  and  quaking 
aspen. 

A  few  timber-line  trees  live  a  thousand  years, 
but  half  this  time  is  a  ripe  old  age  for  most 
timber-line  veterans.  The  age  of  these  trees  can- 
not be  judged  by  their  size,  nor  by  general  ap- 
pearance. There  may  be  centuries  of  difference 
in  the  ages  of  two  arm-in-arm  trees  of  similar 
size.  I  examined  two  trees  that  were  growing 
within  a  few  yards  of  each  other  in  the  shelter 
of  a  crag.  One  was  fourteen  feet  high  and  six- 
teen inches  in  diameter,  and  had  three  hundred 
and  thirty-seven  annual  rings.  The  other  was 
seven  feet  high  and  five  inches  in  diameter,  and 
had  lived  four  hundred  and  ninety-two  years! 

One  autumn  a  grizzly  I  was  following  —  to 
learn  his  bill-of-fare  —  tore  up  a  number  of 
dwarfed  trees  at  timber-line  while  digging  out 
a  woodchuck  and  some  chipmunks.  A  number 
of  the  smaller  trees  I  carried  home  for  careful 
examination.  One  of  these  was  a  black  birch 
with  a  trunk  nine-tenths  of  an  inch  in  diameter, 
a  height  of  fifteen  inches,  and  a  limb-spread  of 

61 


(Roc£j>  Qtlounfoin  TUon^trfcmb 

twenty- two.  It  had  thirty-four  annual  rings. 
Another  was  truly  a  veteran  pine,  though  his 
trunk  was  but  six-tenths  of  an  inch  in  diameter, 
his  height  twenty-three  inches,  and  his  limb- 
spread  thirty-one.  His  age  was  sixty-seven 
years.  A  midget  that  I  carried  home  in  my  vest 
pocket  was' two  inches  high,  had  a  limb-spread 
of  about  four  inches,  and  was  twenty-eight 
years  of  age. 

A  limber  pine  I  examined  was  full  of  annual 
rings  and  experiences.  A  number  of  its  rings 
were  less  than  one  hundredth  of  an  inch  in 
thickness.  At  the  height  of  four  feet  its  trunk 
took  on  an  acute  angle  and  extended  nine  feet 
to  leeward,  then  rose  vertically  for  three  feet. 
Its  top  and  limbs  merged  into  a  tangled  mass 
about  one  foot  thick,  which  spread  out  eight 
feet  horizontally.  It  was  four  hundred  and  nine 
years  old.  It  grew  rapidly  during  its  first  thirty- 
eight  years;  then  followed  eighteen  years  during 
which  it  almost  ceased  growing;  after  this  it 
grew  evenly  though  slowly. 

One  day  by  the  sunny  and  sheltered  side  of  a 
boulder  I  found  a  tiny  seed-bearer  at  an  alti- 

62 


tucle  of  eleven  thousand  eight  hundred  feet. 
How  splendidly  unconscious  it  was  of  its  size 
and  its  utterly  wild  surroundings!  This  brave 
pine  bore  a  dainty  cone,  yet  a  drinking-glass 
would  have  completely  housed  both  the  tree 
and  its  fruit. 

Many  kinds  of  life  are  found  at  timber-line. 
One  April  I  put  on  snowshoes  and  went  up  to 
watch  the  trees  emerge  from  their  months-old 
covering  of  snow.  While  standing  upon  a 
matted,  snow-covered  thicket,  I  saw  a  swelling 
of  the  snow  produced  by  something  moving 
beneath.  "Plainly  this  is  not  a  tree  pulling 
itself  free!"  I  thought,  and  stood  still  in  aston- 
ishment. A  moment  later  a  bear  burst  up 
through  the  snow  within  a  few  yards  of  me  and 
paused,  blinking  in  the  glare  of  light.  No  plan 
for  immediate  action  occurred  to  me;  so  I  froze. 
Presently  the  bear  scented  me  and  turned  back 
for  a  look.  After  winking  a  few  times  as  though 
half  blinded,  he  galloped  off  easily  across  the 
compacted  snow.  The  black  bear  and  the 
grizzly  occasionally  hibernate  beneath  these 
low,  matted  tree-growths. 

63 


(RocGg  (Hlounfain  Tfronberfanb 

The  mountain  lion  may  prowl  here  during 
any  month.  Deer  frequent  the  region  in  sum- 
mer. Mountain  sheep  often  take  refuge  be- 
neath the  clustered  growths  during  the  autumn 
storms.  Of  course  the  audacious  pine  squirrel 
comes  to  claim  the  very  forest-edge  and  from 
a  point  of  safety  to  scold  all  trespassers;  and 
here,  too,  lives  the  cheery  chipmunk. 

This  is  the  nursery,  or  summer  residence,  of 
many  kinds  of  birds.  The  "camp-bird,"  the 
Rocky  Mountain  jay,  is  a  resident.  Here  in 
spring  the  white-crowned  sparrow  sings  and 
sings.  During  early  summer  the  solitaire,  the 
most  eloquent  songster  I  have  ever  heard, 
comes  up  from  his  nest  just  down  the  slope  to 
pay  a  tribute  of  divine  melody  to  the  listening, 
time-worn  trees.  In  autumn  the  Clarke  crow 
appears  and,  with  wild  and  half -weird  calls  of 
merriment,  devours  the  fat  nuts  in  the  cones  of 
the  limber  pine.  During  this  nutting,  magpies 
are  present  with  less  business  than  at  any  other 
time  and  apparently  without  a  plan  for  devil- 
try. Possibly  they  are  attracted  and  enter- 
tained by  the  boisterousness  of  the  crows. 

64 


£#e  $oxtzt  §xontitx 

Lovely  wild-flower  gardens  occupy  many  of 
the  openings  in  this  torn  and  bristling  edge  of 
the  forest.  In  places  acres  are  crowded  so 
closely  with  thrifty,  brilliant  bloom  that  one 
hesitates  to  walk  through  and  trample  the 
flowers.  Here  the  columbine,  the  paintbrush, 
the  monument-plant,  and  scores  of  other  bright 
blossoms  cheer  the  wild  frontier. 

Rarely  are  strangers  in  the  mountains  thor- 
oughly aroused.  They  need  time  or  explana- 
tion in  order  to  comprehend  or  appreciate  the 
larger  scenes,  though  they  do,  of  course,  have 
periodic  outbursts  in  adjectives.  But  at  timber- 
line  the  monumental  scene  at  once  has  the 
attention,  and  no  explanation  is  needed.  Tim- 
ber-line tells  its  own  stirring  story  of  frontier 
experience  by  a  forest  of  powerful  and  eloquent 
tree  statues  and  bold,  battered,  and  far-ex- 
tending figures  in  relief. 

Only  a  few  of  the  many  young  people  whom 
I  have  guided  to  timber-line  have  failed  to  feel 
the  significance  of  the  scene,  but  upon  one  party 
fresh  from  college  the  eloquent  pioneer  spirit  of 
the  place  made  no  impression,  and  they  talked 

65 


(RocRp  (mountain  H?on^rfanfc 

glibly  and  cynically  of  these  faithful  trees  with 
such  expressions  as  "A  Dore  garden!"  "111- 
shapen  fiends!"  "How  foolish  to  live  here!" 
and  ' '  Criminal  classes ! ' '  More  appreciative  was 
the  little  eight-year-old  girl  whose  ascent  of 
Long's  Peak  I  have  told  of  in  "Wild  Life  on  the 
Rockies."  She  paid  the  trees  at  timber-line  as 
simple  and  as  worthy  a  tribute  as  I  have  ever 
heard  them  receive:  "What  brave  little  trees 
to  stay  up  here  where  they  have  to  stand  all  the 
time  with  their  feet  in  the  snow!" 

The  powerful  impressions  received  at  timber- 
line  lead  many  visitors  to  return  for  a  better 
acquaintance,  and  from  each  visit  the  visitor 
goes  away  more  deeply  impressed:  for  timber- 
line  is  not  only  novel  and  strange,  it  is  touched 
with  pathos  and  poetry  and  has  a  life-story  that 
is  heroic.  Its  scenes  are  among  the  most  pri- 
meval, interesting,  and  thought-compelling  to 
be  found  upon  the  globe. 


Z$t  £0inooa  TWw& 


Cold  and  snow  took  possession  of  the  ranges 
on  one  occasion  while  I  was  making  a  stay 
in  the  winter  quarters  of  a  Montana  cattle 
company.  There  was  a  quiet,  heavy  snow,  a 
blizzard,  and  at  last  a  sleet  storm.  At  first  the 
cattle  collected  with  drooping  heads  and  waited 
for  the  storm  to  end,  but  long  before  the  sky 
cleared,  they  milled  and  trampled  confusedly 
about.  With  the  clearing  sky  came  still  and 
extreme  cold.  Stock  water  changed  to  ice,  and 
the  short,  crisp  grass  of  the  plains  was  hope- 
lessly cemented  over  with  ice  and  snow.  The 
suffering  of  the  cattle  was  beyond  description. 
For  a  time  they  wandered  about,  apparently 
without  an  aim.  There  were  thousands  of 
other  herds  in  this  appalling  condition.  At 
last,  widely  scattered,  they  stood  humped  up, 
awaiting  death.  But  one  morning  the  foreman 
burst  in  excitedly  with  the  news,  "The  Chinook 
is  coming!"    Out  in  the  snow  the  herds  were 

69 


(Roc8j>  Qftounfoin  TJ?onb*rfcmb 

aroused,  and  each  "critter"  was  looking  west- 
ward as  though  good  news  had  been  scented 
afar.  Across  the  mountain-tops  toward  which 
the  stock  were  looking,  great  wind-blown  clouds 
were  flying  toward  the  plains.  In  less  than  an 
hour  the  rescuing  Chinook  rushed  upon  the 
scene.  The  temperature  rose  forty  degrees  in 
less  than  half  as  many  minutes;  then  it  steadied 
and  rose  more  slowly.  The  warm,  dry  wind 
quickly  increased  to  a  gale.  By  noon  both  the 
sleet  and  the  snow  were  gone,  and  thousands 
of  cattle  were  eagerly  feeding  in  the  brown  and 
curly  grass  of  the  wide,  bleached  plain. 

This  experience  enabled  me  to  understand 
the  "Waiting  for  a  Chinook"  picture  of  the 
"Cowboy  Artist."  This  picture  was  originally 
intended  to  be  the  spring  report,  after  a  stormy 
Montana  winter,  to  the  eastern  stockholders  of 
a  big  cattle  company.  It  showed  a  spotted  soli- 
tary cow  standing  humped  in  a  snowy  plain.  One 
horn  is  broken  and  her  tail  is  frozen  off.  Near 
are  three  hungry  coyotes  in  different  waiting  at- 
titudes. The  picture  bore  the  legend  "The  Last 
of  Five  Thousand,  Waiting  for  a  Chinook." 

70 


It  is  "Presto!  Change!"  when  the  warm 
Chinook  wind  appears.  Wintry  landscapes 
vanish  in  the  balmy,  spring-like  breath  of  this 
strange,  hospitable,  though  inconstant  Gulf 
Stream  of  the  air.  This  wind  is  extra  dry  and 
warm;  occasionally  it  is  almost  hot.  Many 
times  in  Montana  I  have  experienced  the  forc- 
ing, transforming  effectiveness  of  this  hale, 
eccentric  wind. 

The  completion  of  the  big  copper  refinery  at 
Great  Falls  was  celebrated  with  a  banquet. 
One  of  the  larger  rooms  in  the  new  building  was 
used  for  the  banquet-hall.  Out  to  this,  a  mile 
or  so  from  the  city,  the  banqueters  were  taken 
in  a  sleigh.  That  evening  the  roads  were 
snow-and-ice-covered,  and  the  temperature  was 
several  degrees  below  zero.  A  Chinook  wind 
arrived  while  the  banquet  was  in  session,  and 
although  the  feast  was  drawn  out  no  longer 
than  usual,  the  banqueters,  on  adjourning, 
found  the  snow  and  ice  entirely  gone,  the  earth 
dry,  and  the  air  as  balmy  as  though  just  off  an 
Arizona  desert  in  June. 

The   Chinook   blows   occasionally   over   the 

7i 


Northwest  during  the  five  colder  months  of  the 
year.  Though  of  brief  duration,  these  winds 
are  very  efficacious  in  softening  the  asperities  of 
winter  with  their  moderating  warmth,  and  they 
are  of  great  assistance  to  the  stock  and  other 
interests.  Apparently  the  Chinook  starts  from 
the  Pacific,  in  the  extreme  Northwest,  warm 
and  heavily  moisture-laden.  Sweeping  east- 
ward, it  is  chilled  in  crossing  the  mountains, 
on  which  it  speedily  releases  its  moisture  in 
heavy  snowfalls.  Warmed  through  releasing 
moisture,  it  is  still  further  warmed  through  com- 
pression while  descending  the  Cascades,  and 
it  goes  forward  extremely  feverish  and  thirsty. 
It  now  feels  like  a  hot  desert  wind,  and,  like  air 
off  the  desert's  dusty  face,  it  is  insatiably  dry 
and  absorbs  moisture  with  astounding  rapidity. 
It  may  come  from  the  west,  the  southwest, 
or  the  northwest.  Its  eastward  sweep  sometimes 
carries  it  into  Wisconsin,  Iowa,  and  Kansas, 
but  it  most  frequently  floods  and  favors  the 
Canadian  plains,  Oregon,  Washington,  Mon- 
tana, Idaho,  Wyoming,  and  Colorado.  It  may 
come  gently  and  remain  as  a  moderate  breeze 

72 


or  it  may  appear  violently  and  blow  a  gale. 
Its  duration  is  from  a  few  hours  to  several  days. 
There  are  numerous  instances  on  record  of  a 
Chinook  greatly  raising  the  temperature,  re- 
moving several  inches  of  snow,  and  drying  the 
earth  in  an  unbelievably  short  time.  An  ex- 
treme case  of  this  kind  took  place  in  northern 
Montana  in  December,  1896.  Thirty  inches  of 
snow  lay  over  everything;  and  the  quicksilver- 
tip  in  thermometers  was  many  lines  below  zero. 
In  this  polar  scene  the  Chinook  appeared. 
Twelve  hours  later  the  snow  had  entirely  van- 
ished! The  Blackfoot  Indians  have  a  graphic 
term  for  this  wind,  —  "the  snow-eater." 
%  In  most  respects  this  wind  is  climatically 
beneficial.  A  thorough  warming  and  drying  a 
few  times  each  winter  renders  many  localities 
comfortably  habitable  that  otherwise  scarcely 
would  be  usable.  The  occasional  removal  of 
snow-excesses  has  its  advantages  to  all  users  of 
roads,  both  wagon  and  rail,  as  well  as  being  help- 
ful to  stock  interests.  There  are  times  when  this 
wind  leaves  the  plains  too  dry,  but  far  more 
frequently  it  prevents  terrible  floods  by  reduc- 

73 


(£ocfy>  QUounfain  TDonbttfonb 

ing  the  heavy  snow  covering  over  the  sources 
of  the  Columbia  and  the  Missouri  before  the 
swift  spring  thaw  appears.  The  Chinook  is  not 
likely  to  create  floods  through  the  rapidity  of 
its  action,  for  it  changes  snow  and  water  to 
vapor  and  carries  this  away  through  the  air. 

The  Chinook  is  nothing  if  not  eccentric. 
Sometimes  it  warms  the  mountain-tops  and 
ignores  the  cold  lowlands.  Often  in  snowy  time 
it  assists  the  railroad  men  to  clear  the  tracks 
on  the  summit  before  it  goes  down  the  slope  a 
few  miles  to  warm  the  muffled  and  discouraged 
snow-shovelers  in  the  valley.  Now  and  then 
a  wind  tempers  the  clime  for  a  sheepman,  while 
in  an  adjoining  valley  only  a  few  miles  away  the 
stockman  and  his  herd  wait  in  vain  for  the 
Chinook. 

The  Chinook  may  appear  at  any  hour  of  the 
day  or  night.  Occasionally  with  a  rush  it  chases 
winter.  Frequently  and  fortunately  it  follows 
a  blizzard.  Often  it  dramatically  saves  the  suf- 
fering herds,  both  wild  and  tame,  and  at  the 
eleventh  hour  it  brings  the  balm  of  the  south- 
land to  the  waiting,  starving  birds. 

74 


%%t  <D0tnoo&  T27mb 

The  Chinook  wind  is  a  Westerner.  Similar 
though  less  far-reaching  winds  blow  in  the  moun- 
tains of  Europe  and  Asia.  In  the  West,  and 
especially  the  Northwest,  it  has  a  happy  and 
important  place,  and  the  climate  of  this  region 
cannot  be  comprehended  without  understand- 
ing the  influence  of  the  Chinook  wind. 


(#00octaftn<j  xotf#  (kno)w§bt\U8 


Elites 

JV  very  snow-fall  caused  a  snow-slide  to  rush 
y&  down  Bobtail  Gulch.  This  run-off  of  snow 
was  as  regular  as  the  run-off  of  storm-water. 
The  snow  which  accumulated  at  the  head  of 
this  gulch  was  a  danger  to  the  trail  below,  and 
if  the  snow  showed  the  slightest  hesitation  to 
"run"  when  the  storm  had  ended,  a  miner  from 
a  neighboring  mine  started  it  by  rolling  a  few 
stones  into  it  or  by  exploding  a  stick  of  dyna- 
mite near  by. 

During  my  stay  at  a  miners'  boarding-house 
in  the  San  Juan  Mountains  a  heavy  snow-fall 
came  to  a  close.  "Has  the  Greagory  run  yet? " 
inquired  the  foreman  of  one  of  the  miners. 
"No."  "Better  start  it,  then."  Ten  minutes 
later  fifty  thousand  tons  of  snow  went  plung- 
ing down  Greagory  Gulch. 

"This  cabin  will  never  be  caught  by  a  snow- 

79 


(RocRj>  QWounfoin  TUonfcerfanb 

slide!"  said  the  prospector  with  whom  I  was 
having  supper.  "A  slide  hit  my  cabin  in  the 
Sawtooth  Mountains.  No  more  sleeping  for 
me  in  the  possible  right-of-way  of  a  slide!  I 
sized  up  the  territory  before  building  this  cabin 
and  I  've  put  it  out  of  the  range  of  slides." 

All  this  was  encouraging,  as  I  was  to  spend 
the  night  in  the  cabin  and  had  arrived  after 
the  surrounding  mountains  were  hidden  in 
darkness.  A  record-breaking  snow  of  eight  days 
and  nights  had  just  ended  a  few  hours  before. 
During  the  afternoon,  as  I  came  down  from 
Alpine  Pass  on  snowshoes,  the  visible  peaks  and 
slopes  loomed  white  and  were  threateningly 
overladen  with  snow.  Avalanches  would  run  riot 
during  the  next  few  hours,  and  the  sliding  might 
begin  at  any  minute.  Gorges  and  old  slide- 
ways  would  hold  most  of  these  in  the  beaten 
slide-tracks,  but  there  was  the  possibility  of 
an  overladen  mountain  sending  off  a  shoot- 
ing star  of  a  slide  which  might  raise  havoc  by 
smashing  open  a  new  orbit. 

The  large  spruces  around  the  cabin  showed 
that  if  ever  a  slide  had  swept  this  site  it  was 

80 


longer  ago  than  a  century.  As  no  steep  slope 
came  down  upon  the  few  acres  of  flat  surround- 
ing the  cabin,  we  appeared  to  be  in  a  slide- 
proof  situation.  However,  to  the  north  was  a 
high  snow-piled  peak  that  did  not  look  assur- 
ing, even  though  between  it  and  the  cabin  was 
a  gorge  and  near  by  a  rocky  ridge.  Somewhat 
acquainted  with  the  ways  of  slides,  I  lay  awake 
in  the  cabin,  waiting  to  hear  the  muffled 
thunder-storm  of  sound  which  would  proclaim 
that  slides  were  "running." 

Snow-slides  may  be  said  to  have  habits.  Like 
water,  they  are  governed  by  gravity.  Both  in 
gulches  and  on  mountain-sides,  they  start  most 
readily  on  steep  and  comparatively  smooth 
slopes.  If  a  snow-drift  is  upon  a  thirty-degree 
incline,  it  may  almost  be  pushed  into  sliding 
with  a  feather.  A  slope  more  steeply  inclined 
than  thirty  degrees  does  not  offer  a  snow-drift 
any  visible  means  of  support.  Unless  this  slope 
be  broken  or  rough,  a  snow-drift  may  slide  off 
at  any  moment. 

In  the  course  of  a  winter,  as  many  as  half  a 
dozen  slides  may  start  from  the  same  place  and 


each  shoot  down  through  the  same  gorge  or  over 
the  same  slope  as  its  predecessor.  Only  so  much 
snow  can  cling  to  a  slope ;  therefore  the  number 
of  slides  during  each  winter  is  determined  by 
the  quantity  of  snow  and  the  character  of  the 
slope.  As  soon  as  snow  is  piled  beyond  the 
holding-limit,  away  starts  the  slide.  A  slide 
may  have  slipped  from  this  spot  only  a  few 
days  before,  and  here  another  may  slip  away 
a  few  days  later;  or  a  year  may  elapse  before 
another  runs.  Thus  local  topography  and  local 
weather  conditions  determine  local  slide  habits, 
—  when  a  slide  will  start  and  the  course  over 
which  it  will  run. 

The  prospector  was  snoring  before  the  first 
far-off  thunder  was  heard.  Things  were  moving. 
Seashore  storm  sounds  could  be  heard  in  the 
background  of  heavy  rumbling.  This  thunder 
swelled  louder  until  there  was  a  heavy  rumble 
everywhere.  Then  came  an  earthquake  jar, 
closely  followed  by  a  violently  explosive  crash. 
A  slide  was  upon  us!  A  few  seconds  later  tons 
of  snow  fell  about  us,  crushing  the  trees  and 
wrecking  the  cabin.   Though  we  escaped  with- 

82 


out  a  scratch,  a  heavy  spruce  pole,  a  harpoon 
flung  by  the  slide,  struck  the  cabin  at  an  angle, 
piercing  the  roof  and  one  of  the  walls. 

The  prospector  was  not  frightened,  but  he 
was  mad!  Outwitted  by  a  snow-slide!  That 
we  were  alive  was  no  consolation  to  him. 
"Where  on  earth  did  the  thing  come  from?" 
he  kept  repeating  until  daylight.  Next  morn- 
ing we  saw  that  to  the  depth  of  several  feet 
about  the  cabin  and  on  top  of  it  were  snow- 
masses,  mixed  with  rock-fragments,  broken 
tree-trunks,  and  huge  wood-splinters,  —  the 
fragment  remains  of  a  snow-slide. 

This  slide  had  started  from  a  high  peak-top 
a  mile  to  the  north  of  the  cabin.  For  three 
quarters  of  a  mile  it  had  coasted  down  a  slope 
at  the  bottom  of  which  a  gorge  curved  away 
toward  the  west;  but  so  vast  was  the  quantity 
of  snow  that  this  slide  filled  and  blocked  the 
gorge  with  less  than  half  of  its  mass.  Over  the 
snowy  bridge  thus  formed,  the  momentum 
carried  the  remainder  straight  across  the  gulch. 
Landing,  it  swept  up  a  steep  slope  for  three 
hundred  feet  and  rammed  the  rocky  ridge  back 

83 


(Roc6j>  (piounfoin  TJ?onbtt(ani> 

of  the  cabin.  The  greater  part  came  to  a  stop 
and  lay  scattered  about  the  ridge.  Not  one 
tenth  of  the  original  bulk  went  over  and  up  to 
wreck  the  cabin!  The  prospector  stood  on  this 
ridge,  surveying  the  scene  and  thinking,  when 
I  last  looked  back. 

Heavy  slides  sometimes  rush  so  swiftly  down 
steep  slopes  that  their  momentum  carries  their 
entire  mass  destructively  several  hundred  feet 
up  the  slope  of  the  mountain  opposite. 

Desiring  fuller  knowledge  of  the  birth  and 
behavior  of  avalanches,  or  snow-slides,  I  in- 
vaded the  slide  zone  on  snowshoes  at  the  close 
of  a  winter  which  had  the  "deepest  snow-fall 
on  record."  Several  days  were  spent  watching 
the  snow-slide  action  in  the  San  Juan  Moun- 
tains. It  was  a  wild,  adventurous,  dramatic 
experience,  which  closed  with  an  avalanche 
that  took  me  from  the  heights  on  a  thrilling, 
spectacular  coast  down  a  steep  mountain-side. 

A  thick,  snowy,  marble  stratum  overlay  the 
slopes  and  summits.  Appearing  on  the  scene 
at  the  time  when,  on  the  steeps,  spring  was 
melting  the  icy  cement  that  held  winter's  wind- 

84 


LIZARD    HEAD    PEAK   IN   THE  SAN   JUAN    MOUNTAINS 


piled  snows,  I  saw  many  a  snowy  hill  and  em- 
bankment released.  Some  of  these,  as  slides, 
made  meteoric  plunges  from  summit  crags  to 
gentler  places  far  below. 

A  snow-storm  prevailed  during  my  first 
night  in  the  slide  region,  and  this  made  a  de- 
posit of  five  or  six  inches  of  new  snow  on  top  of 
the  old.  On  the  steeper  places  this  promptly 
slipped  off  in  dry,  small  slides,  but  most  of  it 
was  still  in  place  when  I  started  to  climb  higher. 

While  I  was  tacking  up  a  comparatively 
smooth  slope,  one  of  my  snowshoes  slipped, 
and,  in  scraping  across  the  old,  crusted  snow, 
started  a  sheaf  of  the  fluffy  new  snow  to  slip- 
ping. Hesitatingly  at  first,  the  new  snow 
skinned  off.  Suddenly  the  fresh  snow  to  right 
and  left  concluded  to  go  along,  and  the  full 
width  of  the  slope  below  my  level  was  moving 
and  creaking;  slowly  the  whole  slid  into  swifter 
movement  and  the  mass  deepened  with  the 
advance.  Now  and  then  parts  of  the  sliding 
snow  slid  forward  over  the  slower-moving, 
crumpling,  friction-resisted  front  and  bottom. 

With  advance  it  grew  steadily  deeper  from 

85 


constantly  acquired  material  and  from  the  in- 
fluence of  converging  water-channels  which  it 
followed.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  its  birth- 
place it  was  about  fifty  feet  deep  and  twice  as 
wide,  with  a  length  of  three  hundred  feet.  Com- 
posed of  new  snow  and  coasting  as  swiftly  as  a 
gale,  it  trailed  a  white  streamer  of  snow-dust 
behind.  A  steeper  or  a  rougher  channel  added 
to  the  volume  of  snow-dust  or  increased  the 
agitation  of  the  pace-keeping  pennant.  The 
morning  was  clear,  and,  by  watching  the  wig- 
wagging snow  flag,  I  followed  easily  the  for- 
tunes of  the  slide  to  the  bottom  of  the  slope. 
After  a  swift  mile  of  shooting  and  plunging,  the 
slide,  greatly  compressed,  sprawled  and  spread 
out  over  a  level  glacier  meadow,  where  its  last 
remnant  lingered  for  the  warmth  of  July. 

Dismissing  this  slide,  I  watched  along  the 
range  to  the  north  and  south,  and  from  time  to 
time  saw  the  white  scudding  plumes  of  other 
slides,  which,  hidden  in  the  canons,  were  merrily 
coasting  down  from  the  steep-sloping  crest. 

These  slides,  unless  they  had  run  down  an 
animal,  did  no  damage.  They  were  composed  of 

86 


freshly  fallen  snow  and  in  their  flight  had  moved 
in  old  channels  that  had  been  followed  and  per- 
haps formed  by  hundreds  of  slides  in  years  gone 
by.  Slides  of  this  kind  —  those  which  accom- 
pany or  follow  each  storm  and  which  promptly 
make  away  with  new-fallen  snow  by  carrying 
it  down  through  stream-channels  —  may  be 
called  Storm,  or  Flood,  slides.  These  usually 
are  formed  in  smooth  gulches  or  on  steep 
slopes. 

The  other  kinds  of  slides  may  be  called  the 
Annual  and  the  Century.  In  places  of  rough 
surface  or  moderate  slope  there  must  be  a  large 
accumulation  of  snow  before  a  slide  will  start. 
Weeks  or  even  months  may  pass  before  storm 
and  wind  assemble  sufficient  snow  for  a  slide. 
Places  of  this  kind  commonly  furnish  but  one 
slide  a  year,  and  this  one  in  the  springtime.  At 
last  the  snow-drifts  reach  their  maximum; 
warmth  assists  starting  by  melting  snow-cor- 
nices that  have  held  on  through  the  winter;  these 
drop,  and  by  dropping  often  start  things  going. 
Crags  wedged  off  by  winter  ice  are  also  re- 
leased in  spring;  and  these,  in  going  recklessly 

87 


(Roc6j>  (Tftounfotn  Tftonbetfanb 

down,  often  knock  hesitating  snow-drifts  into 
action.  A  fitting  name  for  those  slides  that 
regularly  run  at  the  close  of  winter  would  be 
Spring,  or  Annual.  These  are  composed  of  the 
winter's  local  accumulation  of  snow  and  slide 
rock,  and  carry  a  much  heavier  percentage  of 
rock-debris  than  the  Storm  slide  carries.  They 
transport  from  the  starting-place  much  of  the 
annual  crumbling  and  the  weatherings  of  air 
and  water,  along  with  the  tribute  pried  off  by 
winter's  ice  levers;  with  this  material  from  the 
heights  also  goes  the  year's  channel  accumula- 
tion of  debris.  The  Annual  slide  does  man  but 
little  damage  and,  like  the  Flood  slide,  it  fol- 
lows the  gulches  and  the  water-courses. 

In  snowy  zones  the  avalanche  is  commonly 
called  a  snow-slide,  or  simply  a  slide.  A  slide, 
with  its  comet  tail  of  powdered  snow,  makes  an 
intense  impression  on  all  who  see  one.  It  ap- 
pears out  of  order  with  the  scheme  of  things; 
but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  one  of  gravity's 
working  ways,  a  demonstration  of  the  laws  of 
sliding  bodies.  A  smooth,  steep  slope  which 
receives  a  heavy  fall   of   snow  will  promptly 


produce  or  throw  off  a  sliding  mass  of  snow. 
Raise,  lower,  or  roughen  this  slope,  increase  or 
decrease  the  annual  snow-fall,  or  change  the 
direction  of  the  wind,  —  and  thus  the  position 
of  snow-drifts,  —  and  there  will  follow  cor- 
responding slide-action.  Wind  and  calm,  grav- 
ity, friction,  adhesion,  cohesion,  geology,  tem- 
perature and  precipitation,  all  have  a  part  and 
place  in  snow-piling  and  in  slide-starting. 

The  Century  slides  are  the  damaging  ones. 
These  occur  not  only  at  unexpected  times  but 
in  unexpected  places.  The  Century  slide  is  the 
deadly  one.  It  usually  comes  down  a  course  not 
before  traversed  by  a  slide,  and  sometimes 
crashes  through  a  forest  or  a  village.  It  may  be 
produced  by  a  record-breaking  snow  or  by 
snow-drifts  formed  in  new  places  by  winds  from 
an  unusual  quarter;  but  commonly  the  mass  is 
of  material  slowly  accumulated.  This  may  con- 
tain the  remnant  snows  and  the  wreckage  spoils 
of  a  hundred  years  or  more.  Ten  thousand 
snows  have  added  to  its  slowly  growing  pile; 
tons  of  rock-dust  have  been  swept  into  it  by  the 
winds;  gravel  has  been  deposited  in  it  by  water; 

89 


QSocRp  (mountain  Tftm^rfanb 

and  gravity  has  conducted  to  it  the  crumbling 
rocks  from  above.  At  last  —  largely  ice  —  it 
breaks  away.  In  rushing  down,  it  gathers  ma- 
terial from  its  predestined  way. 

In  the  spring  of  1901,  one  of  these  slides  broke 
loose  and  came  down  the  slope  of  Gray's  Peak. 
For  years  the  snow  had  accumulated  on  a  ridge 
above  timber-line.  The  mass  shot  down  a  steep 
slope,  struck  the  woods,  and  swept  to  the 
bottom  about  four  thousand  feet  below,  mow- 
ing down  every  tree  in  a  pathway  about  three 
hundred  feet  wide.  About  one  hundred  thou- 
sand trees  were  piled  in  wild,  broken  wreckage 
in  the  gorge  below. 

Although  a  snow-slide  is  almost  irresistible, 
it  is  not  difficult,  in  many  localities,  to  prevent 
slides  by  anchoring  the  small  snow-drift  which 
would  slip  and  start  the  slide.  In  the  West,  a 
number  of  slides  have  been  suppressed  by  set- 
ting a  few  posts  in  the  upper  reaches  of  slopes 
and  gulches.  These  posts  pinned  fast  the  snow 
that  would  slip.  The  remainder  held  its  own. 
The  Swiss,  too,  have  eliminated  many  Alpine 
slides    by    planting    hardy    shrubbery    in    the 

90 


slippery  snowy  areas.  This  anchorage  gives 
the  snow  a  hold  until  it  can  compact  and  freeze 
fast.  Shrubbery  thus  is  preventing  the  white 
avalanche! 

A  slide  once  took  me  with  it.  I  was  near  the 
bottom  of  one  snowy  arm  of  a  V  gulch,  waiting 
to  watch  Gravity,  the  world-leveler,  take  his 
next  fragment  of  filling  to  the  lowlands.  Sepa- 
rating these  arms  was  a  low,  tongue-like  rock- 
ledge.  A  gigantic  snow-cornice  and  a  great 
snow-field  filled,  with  full-heaped  and  rounded 
measure,  the  uppermost  parts  of  the  other 
arm. 

Deep  rumblings  through  the  earth,  echoings 
from  crags  and  canons  through  the  communi- 
cative air,  suddenly  heralded  the  triumphant 
starting  of  an  enormous  slide.  About  three 
hundred  feet  up  the  heights,  a  broken  end-on 
embankment  of  rocks  and  snow,  it  came  coast- 
ing, dusting  into  view,  plunging  towards  me. 
As  a  rock-ledge  separated  the  two  ravines  above 
the  junction,  I  felt  secure,  and  I  did  not  realize 
until  too  late  that  I  was  to  coast  down  on  the 
slide.    Head-on,  it  rumbled  heavily  toward  me 

9i 


$oc%  Qttounfain  T3?otrt>erfanb 

with  its  mixed  and  crumbling  front,  making  a 
most  impressive  riot  of  moving  matter.  Again 
and  again  the  snowy  monster  smashed  its 
shoulder  into  the  impregnable  farther  wall.  At 
last,  one  hundred  feet  high  and  twice  as  wide, 
came  its  impinging,  crumbling  front.  At  times 
the  bottom  caught  and  rolled  under,  leaving 
the  overhanging  front  to  cave  and  tumble  for- 
ward with  snowy  splashes. 

This  crumbling  front  was  not  all  snow;  oc- 
casionally an  iceberg  or  a  cargo  of  stones  fell 
forward.  With  snow  flying  from  it  as  from  a 
gale-swept,  snow-piled  summit,  this  monster 
of  half  a  million  tons  roared  and  thundered  by 
in  a  sound-burst  and  reverberation  of  incom- 
parable depth  and  resonance,  to  plunge  into  a 
deeper,  steeper  rock-walled  gorge.  It  prob- 
ably was  moving  thirty-five  or  forty  miles  an 
hour  and  was  gaining  in  velocity  every  sec- 
ond. 

The  noise  of  its  passing  suppressed  the  sounds 
of  the  slide  that  started  in  the  gulch  above  me. 
Before  I  could  realize  it,  this  slide  swept  down, 
and  the  snow  on  which  I  was  standing  burst  up 

92 


with  me  into  the  air,  struck  and  leaped  the 
low  ledge,  rammed  the  rear  end  of  the  passing 
slide,  and  landed  me,  snowshoes  down,  on  top 
of  it. 

The  top  was  unstable  and  dangerous;  it 
lurched,  burst  up,  curled  under,  yawned,  and 
gave  off  hissing  jets  of  snow  powder;  these  and 
the  plunging  movements  kept  me  desperately 
active,  even  with  my  broad  snowshoes,  to  avoid 
being  swallowed  up,  or  overturned  and  smoth- 
ered, or  crushed  in  the  chaotic,  Assuring  mass. 

As  its  speed  increased,  I  now  and  then  caught 
a  glimpse,  through  flying,  pelting  snow-parti- 
cles, of  shooting  rocks  which  burst  explosively 
through  the  top.  At  timber-line  the  gorge  walls 
abruptly  ended  and  the  channel  curved  swiftly 
to  the  left  in  a  broad,  shallow  ravine.  The  mo- 
mentum of  this  monster  carried  it  out  of  the 
ravine  and  straight  ahead  over  a  rough, 
forested  ridge. 

Trees  before  it  were  crushed  down,  and  those 
alongside  were  thrown  into  a  wild  state  of  ex- 
citement by  the  violence  of  swiftly  created  and 
entangling  gale-currents.    From  the  maelstrom 

93 


(Roc6j>  (mountain  T3?onbttfanb 

on  the  top  I  looked  down  upon  the  panic 
through  the  snow-dust-filled  air  and  saw  trees 
flinging  their  arms  wildly  about,  bowing  and 
posturing  to  the  snow.  Occasionally  a  treetop 
was  snapped  off,  and  these  broken  tops  swirled 
wildly  about,  hurried  forward  or  backward,  or 
were  floated  upward  on  rotating,  slower  cur- 
rents. The  sides  of  the  slide  crumbled  and  ex- 
panded ;  so  it  became  lower,  flatter,  and  wider, 
as  it  slid  forward  on  a  moderate  up  grade.  A 
half-mile  after  leaving  the  gorge,  the  slide  col- 
lided at  right  angles  with  a  high  moraine.  The 
stop  telescoped  the  slide,  and  the  shock  ex- 
ploded the  rear  third  and  flung  it  far  to  right 
and  left,  scattering  it  over  a  wide  area.  Half 
a  minute  later  I  clawed  out  of  the  snow-pile, 
almost  suffocated,  but  unhurt. 

Toward  the  close  of  my  last  winter  as  govern- 
ment "Snow  Observer"  I  made  a  snowshoe  trip 
along  the  upper  slopes  of  the  Continental  Di- 
vide and  scaled  a  number  of  peaks  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains  of  central  Colorado.  During  this 
trip  I  saw  a  large  and  impressive  snow-slide  at 
a  thrillingly  close  range.-  It  broke  loose  and 

94 


"ran"  —  more  correctly,  plunged  —  by  me 
down  a  frightful  slope.  Everything  before  it 
was  overwhelmed  and  swept  down.  At  the  bot- 
tom of  the  slope  it  leaped  in  fierce  confusion 
from  the  top  of  a  precipice  down  into  a  canon. 

For  years  this  snowy  mass  had  accumulated 
upon  the  heights.  It  was  one  of  the  "eternal 
snows"  that  showed  in  summer  to  people  far 
below  and  far  away.  A  century  of  winters  had 
contributed  snows  to  its  pile.  A  white  hill  it  was 
in  the  upper  slope  of  a  gulch,  where  it  clung, 
pierced  and  anchored  by  granite  pinnacles. 
Its  icy  base,  like  poured  molten  lead,  had  cov- 
ered and  filled  all  the  inequalities  of  the  founda- 
tion upon  which  it  rested.  Time  and  its  tools, 
together  with  its  own  height  and  weight,  at  last 
combined  to  release  it  to  the  clutch  and  eternal 
pull  of  gravity.  The  expanding,  shearing,  break- 
ing force  of  forming  ice,  the  constant  cutting  of 
emery-edged  running  water,  and  the  under- 
mining thaw  of  spring  sent  thundering  down- 
ward with  ten  thousand  varying  echoes  a  half- 
million  tons  of  snow,  ice,  and  stones. 

Head-on  the  vast  mass  came  exploding  to- 

95 


(Rocfty  Qftounfcun  T27onbetfanb 

ward  me.  Wildly  it  threw  off  masses  of  snowy 
spray  and  agitated,  confused  whirlwinds  of 
snow-dust.  I  was  watching  from  the  top  of  a 
precipice.  Below,  the  wide,  deep  canon  was 
filled  with  fleecy  clouds,  —  a  bay  from  a  sea  of 
clouds  beyond.  The  slide  shot  straight  for  the 
cloud-filled  abyss  and  took  with  it  several  hun- 
dred broken  trees  from  an  alpine  grove  that  it 
wrecked  just  above  the  precipice. 

This  swift-moving  monster  disturbed  the  air, 
and  excited,  stampeding,  and  cyclonic  winds 
flung  me  headlong,  as  it  tore  by  with  rush  and 
roar.  I  arose  in  time  to  see  the  entire  wreckage 
deflected  a  few  degrees  upward  as  it  shot  far  out 
over  the  cloud-made  bay  of  the  ocean.  A  riot- 
ing acre  of  rock-fragments,  broken  trees,  shat- 
tered icebergs,  and  masses  of  dusting  snow  hesi- 
tated momentarily  in  the  air,  then,  separating, 
they  fell  whirling,  hurtling,  and  scattering,  with 
varying  velocities,  —  rocks,  splintered  trees,  and 
snow,  —  in  silent  flight  to  plunge  into  the  white 
bay  beneath.  No  sound  was  given  forth  as  they 
fell  into,  and  disappeared  beneath,  the  agitated 
sea  of  clouds.    How  strange  this  noiseless  fall 

96 


was!  A  few  seconds  later,  as  the  wreckage 
reached  the  bottom,  there  came  from  beneath 
the  silent  surface  the  muffled  sounds  of  crash 
and  conflict. 


TWCb  #o(&  of  (U  (Vftounfaini 
Summits 


^ummtte 

^fr^HE  higher  mountain-ranges  rise  far  above 
^S  the  zone  of  life  and  have  summits  that  are 
deeply  overladen  with  ancient  snow  and  ice,  but 
the  upper  slopes  and  summits  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains  of  Colorado  and  the  Sierra  of  Cali- 
fornia are  not  barren  and  lifeless,  even  though 
they  stand  far  above  the  timber-line.  There  is 
no  other  mountain-range  on  the  earth  that  I 
know  of  that  can  show  such  a  varied  and  vigor- 
ous array  of  life  above  the  tree-line  as  do  these 
ranges.  In  the  Alps  the  upper  slopes  and  sum- 
mits stand  in  eternal  desolation,  without  life 
even  in  summertime.  The  icy  stratum  that 
overlies  the  summit  Alps  is  centuries  old,  and  is 
perpetual  down  to  nine  thousand  feet.  Timber- 
line  there  is  only  sixty-four  hundred  feet  above 
sea-level.  How  different  the  climatic  conditions 
in  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  in  the  Sierra,  where 

IOI 


timber-line  is  at  approximately  eleven  thousand 
five  hundred  feet,  or  a  vertical  mile  higher  than 
it  is  in  the  Alps! 

Even  the  high  peaks  of  this  region  have 
touches  of  plant-life  and  are  visited  by  birds  and 
beasts.  The  list  of  living  things  which  I  have 
seen  on  the  summit  of  Long's  Peak  (14,255  feet 
above  sea-level)  includes  the  inevitable  and 
many-tinted  lichens,  spike-grass,  dainty  blue 
polemonium,  and  clumps  of  crimson  purple 
primroses,  all  exquisitely  beautiful.  There  are 
straggling  bumblebees,  grasshoppers,  and  at 
least  two  kinds  of  prettily  robed  butterflies. 
Among  the  mammals  visiting  the  summit  I  have 
seen  a  mountain  lion,  a  bob-cat,  a  rabbit,  and  a 
silver  fox,  though  only  one  of  each.  The  bird 
callers  embrace  flocks  of  rosy  finches,  ptarmigan, 
and  American  pipits,  and  numbers  of  white- 
crowned  sparrows  and  j uncos,  together  with  a 
scattering  of  robins,  bluebirds,  golden  eagles, 
red-tailed  hawks,  and  hummingbirds! 

The  summit  life  zone  in  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains not  only  sweeps  up  to  exceptionally  high 
altitudes,  but  it  embraces  vast  territory.  In  Col- 

102 


T&ifo  #oC8  of  (Mounfam^umtmfe 

orado  alone  the  Arctic-Alpine  territory  above 
the  tree-line  probably  extends  over  five  million 
or  more  acres.  Thrust  high  in  this  summit  area 
are  the  tops  of  more  than  three  hundred  peaks. 
Many  of  these  tower  three  thousand  feet  above 
the  timber-line.  Much  of  this  region  is  made  up 
of  steep  slopes,  shattered  summits,  and  pre- 
cipitous walls,  many  of  which  bound  canons. 
There  is  a  scattering  of  lakes,  gentle  slopes, 
stretches  of  rolling  moorlands,  and  bits  of  wet 
meadow  or  arctic  tundra.  In  this  high  and  far- 
extending  mountain  land  one  may  travel  day 
after  day  always  above  the  uppermost  reaches 
of  the  forest.  In  this  strange  treeless  realm 
there  is  a  largeness  of  view.  Up  close  to  the 
clouds  and  the  sky,  the  big  world  far  below, 
the  scene  stretches  away  in  boundless,  mag- 
nificent distances. 

The  snow-fall  of  this  region  varies  with  local- 
ity, and  ranges  from  a  few  feet  up  to  fifty  feet 
annually.  In  most  localities  this  snow  is  rapidly 
evaporated  by  the  exceedingly  dry  air  of  the 
heights.  The  remnants  of  each  year's  fall  com- 
monly rest  upon  the  accumulations  of  prcced- 

103 


ing  years,  but  during  midsummer  not  one  tenth 
of  the  heights  is  snow-covered.  Vast  areas  are 
occupied  by  craggy  peaks  and  barren  rock- 
fields.  The  barrenness  is  due  almost  entirely  to 
a  lack  of  soil,  not  to  altitude  nor  to  the  rigors  of 
the  climate.  The  climate  is  in  many  respects 
similar  to  that  which  wraps  the  Arctic  Circle 
near  sea-level,  and  it  allows  many  forms  of 
vigorous  life. 

Numerous  moraines,  terraces,  steppes,  and 
moorlands  —  the  wide  sky  plains  —  have  their 
soil,  and  this  in  the  warmth  of  summer  gener- 
ously produces  green  grass  and  brilliant  flowers. 
These,  together  with  big  game,  birds,  and  circling 
butterflies,  people  this  zone  with  life  and  turn 
the  towering  and  terraced  heights  into  the  rarest 
of  hanging  wild  gardens.  In  favored  places  for  a 
mile  or  so  above  timber-line  are  scattered  acres 
of  heathy  growths.  Stunted  by  cold,  clipped  off 
by  the  wind,  and  heavily  pressed  by  the  snow, 
these  growths  are  thickly  tangled,  bristly,  and 
rarely  more  than  a  few  inches  in  height.  Among 
these  are  wintergreen,  bunchberry,  huckleberry, 
kalmia,  currant,  black  birch,  and  arctic  willow. 

104 


i   a 


>  ■« 

O  o 

-  * 

/.  - 

■x.  - 

a  '- 


<      : 
y      - 


TWfe  JbC6  of  (mounfom^ummtte 

There  are  miles  of  moorlands  covered  with  short, 
thin  grasses,  while  deeply  soil-covered  terraces, 
cozy  slopes,  and  wet  meadows  have  plushy  grass 
carpets  several  inches  thick.  These  growths 
form  the  basic  food-supply  of  both  the  insects 
and  the  warm-blooded  life  of  the  heights. 

These  alpine  pastures  are  the  home  of  many 
mountain  sheep.  Between  Long's  Peak  and 
Mt.  Meeker  there  is  a  shattered  shoulder  of 
granite  that  is  fourteen  thousand  feet  above  sea- 
level  and  at  all  times  partly  covered  with  an 
ancient  snow-field,  the  remains  of  a  former  gla- 
cier. During  earlier  years  I  occasionally  used  the 
sky-line  by  this  snow-field  for  a  view-point  and 
a  lingering-place.  One  day  after  a  long  outlook, 
I  emerged  from  between  two  blocks  of  granite 
and  surprised  a  flock  of  mountain  sheep  near 
by.  A  majority  of  them  were  lying  comfortably 
among  the  stones.  One  was  nosing  about,  an- 
other was  scratching  his  side  with  his  hind  hoof, 
while  the  patriarchal  ram  was  poised  on  a  huge 
block  of  granite.  He,  too,  was  looking  down 
upon  the  world,  but  he  was  also  scouting  for 
enemies.  Upon  my  appearance,  the  flock  broke 

105 


(Roc%  (piounfatn  Tfrontorfanb 

away  at  good  speed  but  in  excellent  order,  the 
old  ram  leading  the  way.  In  scrambling  up  for 
a  farewell  view,  I  disturbed  a  mountain  lion. 
He  bounded  among  the  scattered  wreckage  of 
granite  and  vanished.  Here  was  big  game  and 
its  well-fed  pursuer,  in  the  mountain  heights, 
above  the  limits  of  tree  growth  and  almost  three 
miles  above  the  surface  of  the  sea.  Many  flocks 
live  at  an  altitude  of  twelve  thousand  feet.  Here 
the  lambs  are  born,  and  from  this  place  they  all 
make  spring  foraging  excursions  far  down  the 
slopes  into  a  warmer  zone  for  green  stuffs  not 
yet  in  season  on  the  heights.  Their  warm  cover- 
ing of  soft  hair  protects  them  from  the  coldest 
blasts.  Winter  quarters  appear  to  be  chosen  in 
localities  from  which  winds  regularly  sweep  the 
snow.  This  sweeping  prevents  the  snow  from 
burying  food  beyond  reach,  and  lessens  the 
danger  of  these  short-legged  mountaineers  be- 
coming snowbound.  They  commonly  endure 
wind-storms  by  crowding  closely  against  the 
lee  side  of  a  ledge.  Now  and  then  they  are  so 
deeply  drifted  over  with  snow  that  many  of  the 
weaker  ones  perish,  unable  to  wallow  out.  The 

1 06 


TIM  JbW  of  (Wlounfatn^ummite 

snow-slide,  the  white  terror  of  the  heights,  oc- 
casionally carries  off  an  entire  flock  of  these 
bold,  vigilant  sheep. 

The  mountain  lion  is  a  prowler,  a  cowardly, 
rapacious  slaughterer,  and  may  visit  the  heights 
at  any  time.  Though  apparently  irregular  in 
his  visits,  he  seems  to  keep  track  of  the  seasons 
and  to  know  the  date  for  spring  lamb,  and  he  is 
likely  to  appear  while  the  sheep  arc  weak  or 
snowbound.  He  is  a  wanton  killer  and  is  ever 
vigilant  to  slay.  He  lurks  and  lies  in  wait  and 
preys  upon  all  the  birds  and  beasts  except  the 
bear. 

i  This  treeless  realm  is  roamed  by  both  the 
grizzly  and  the  black  bear;  both  pay  most  visits 
during  the  autumn,  and  the  grizzly  occasionally 
hibernates  in  these  uplands.  In  summer  they 
range  the  forests  far  below,  but  with  the  coming 
of  autumn  they  climb  the  slopes  to  dig  out  fat 
woodchucks  and  to  get  the  last  of  the  season's 
berries,  with  which  to  put  on  final  fat  for  hiber- 
nating. They  overturn  stones  for  mice  and  lick 
up  the  accumulations  of  chilled  insects  which 
they  find  along  the  snow  and  ice  fields.  Myriads 

107 


(£oc%  (mountain  IPonberfano 

of  flies,  moths,  grasshoppers,  and  other  insects 
often  accumulate  along  or  on  the  edge  of  snow 
or  ice  fields  in  the  heights,  attracted,  apparently, 
by  the  brilliant  whiteness  of  the  ice  or  the  snow. 
The  cold  closely  surrounding  air  zone  appears 
to  benumb  or  paralyze  them,  and  they  drop  in 
great  numbers  near  the  margin.  Occasionally 
swarms  of  insects  are  carried  by  storms  up  the 
heights  and  dropped  upon  the  snow  or  ice  fields 
which  lie  in  the  eddying-places  of  the  wind. 

One  autumn  I  accompanied  a  gentleman  to 
the  Hallett  Glacier.  On  arriving,  we  explored 
a  crevasse  and  examined  the  bergschrund  at  the 
top.  When  we  emerged  from  the  bergschrund, 
the  new  snow  on  the  glacier  was  so  softened  in 
the  sunshine  that  we  decided  to  have  the  fun  of 
coasting  down  the  steep  face  to  the  bottom  of 
the  slope.  Just  as  we  slid  away,  I  espied  a  bear 
at  the  bottom,  toward  which  we  were  speeding. 
He  was  so  busily  engaged  in  licking  up  insects 
that  he  had  not  noticed  us.  Naturally  the  gentle- 
man with  me  was  frightened,  but  it  was  im- 
possible to  stop  on  the  steep,  steel-like,  and 
snow-lubricated  slope.   Knowing  something  of 

108 


T#i£&  J^ofR  of  QWounfoiw^ummite 

bear  nature,  the  situation,  though  most  interest- 
ing, did  not  appear  serious  to  me.  Meantime, 
the  bear  heard  us  and  made  lively  and  awk- 
ward efforts  to  be  gone.  He  fled  at  a  racing  gal- 
lop, and  gave  us  an  excellent  side  view  of  his 
clumsy,  far-outreaching  lively  hind  legs  going 
it  flatfooted. 

Deer  are  among  the  summer  visitors  in  the 
cool  uplands,  climbing  a  thousand  feet  or  more 
above  the  uppermost  trees.  With  the  first  au- 
tumn snow  they  start  to  descend,  and  they  com- 
monly winter  from  three  to  six  thousand  feet 
below  their  summer  range.  There  are  a  few 
woodchuck  colonies  as  high  as  twelve  thousand 
feet.  The  woodchuck,  in  the  spring,  despite 
short  legs  and  heavy  body,  gives  way  to  wander- 
lust, and  as  a  change  from  hibernation  wanders 
afar  and  occasionally  climbs  a  mountain-peak. 
Sometimes,  too,  a  mountain  lion  prevents  his 
return.  The  silver  fox  is  a  permanent  resident 
of  these  heights  and  ranges  widely  over  them. 
He  catches  woodchucks  and  ptarmigan  and 
feasts  on  big  game  that  has  met  with  accident 
or  that  has  been  left  to  waste  by  that  wild  game- 

109 


(£oc8j>  (mountain  TUonbetfcmb 

hog,  the  mountain  lion.  In  summer,  and  oc- 
casionally in  winter,  both  the  coyote  and  the 
wolf  come  into  the  fox's  territory. 

In  slide  rock  and  in  bouldery  moraines  up  as 
high  as  thirteen  thousand  feet,  one  finds  the 
pika,  or  cony.  Almost  nothing  is  known  of  his 
domestic  life.  Apparently  he  does  not  hibernate, 
for  on  sunny  days  he  may  be  seen  the  year 
round.  Like  the  beaver  he  each  autumn  lays 
up  supplies  for  winter.  Hay  is  his  harvest.  This 
hay  is  frequently  placed  in  conical  piles  in  the 
shelter  of  shelving  rocks.  These  piles  are  some- 
times two  feet  in  diameter.  His  haymaking  is 
done  with  much  hurry.  After  quickly  biting  off 
a  number  of  plants  or  grasses,  he  commonly 
seizes  these  by  their  ends  and  simply  scampers 
for  the  harvest  pile.  Quickly  thrusting  them 
in,  he  hurries  away  for  more.  His  ways  are  de- 
cidedly in  contrast  to  the  beaver's  deliberate 
movements.  When  he  is  sunning  himself,  one 
may,  by  moving  slowly,  approach  within  a  few 
feet.  He  has  a  squeaky  whistle  and  a  birdlike 
call,  each  of  which  it  is  difficult  to  describe.  He 
is  a  tailless  little  fellow,  and  has  round  ratlike 

no 


T£iCo  $ot&  of  (mounfoin^ummtte 

ears;  is  dark  gray  above  and  whitish  beneath. 
In  appearance  he  reminds  one  of  a  small  guinea- 
pig,  or  a  young  rabbit. 

Up  in  this  region,  the  most  skyward  of  life 
zones,  nature,  as  everywhere,  is  red  in  tooth 
and  claw.  There  are  strength  and  cunning, 
victor  and  vanquished,  pursuit  and  death.  One 
day,  while  watching  a  beetle,  I  saw  a  deadly  at- 
tack. For  more  than  an  hour  the  beetle  had 
been  doing  nothing  except  turn  this  way  and 
then  that  without  getting  two  inches  from  the 
grass-edge  on  the  top  of  a  stone.  Suddenly  a 
black  bit  darted  past  my  face,  struck  the  beetle, 
and  knocked  him  over.  It  was  a  wasp,  and  for 
a  few  seconds  these  two  warriors  clinched,  and 
fought  with  all  their  strength,  cunning,  and 
weapons.  While  locked  in  deadly  struggle,  they 
fell  over  a  cliff  that  was  twelve  inches  high ;  the 
fall  broke  their  hold ;  this  was  instantly  renewed, 
but  presently  they  ceased  to  struggle,  with  the 
wasp  victor. 

The  weasel  is  the  white  wolf  among  the 
small  people  of  the  heights.  In  winter  his  pure 
white  fur  allows  him  to  slip  almost  unsuspected 

in 


through  the  snow.  He  preys  upon  the  cony  and 
the  birds  of  the  alpine  zone.  Like  the  mountain 
lion  and  some  human  hunters,  he  does  wanton 
killing  just  for  amusement.  He  is  bloodthirsty, 
cunning,  and  even  bold.  Many  times,  within  a 
few  feet,  he  has  glared  fiendishly  at  me,  seem- 
ing almost  determined  to  attack;  his  long,  low- 
geared  body  and  sinister  and  snaky  eyes  make 
him  a  mean  object  to  look  upon. 

An  experience  with  a  number  of  rosy  finches 
in  the  midst  of  a  blizzard  was  one  of  the  most 
cheerful  ever  given  me  by  wild  fellow  creatures. 
While  snowshoeing  across  one  of  the  high 
passes,  I  was  caught  in  a  terrific  gale,  wThich 
dashed  the  powdered  snow-dust  so  thickly  and 
incessantly  that  breathing  was  difficult  and  at 
times  almost  strangling.  Crawling  beneath  an 
enormous  rock-slab  to  rest  and  breathe,  I  dis- 
turbed a  dozen  or  so  rosy  finches  already  in 
possession  and  evidently  there  for  the  same  pur- 
pose as  myself.  They  moved  to  one  side  and 
made  room  for  me,  but  did  not  go  out.  As  I 
settled  down,  they  looked  at  me  frankly  and 
without  a  fear.    Such  trust!    After  one  calm 

112 


Wo  $of8  of  (mounfoin^umnute 

look,  they  gave  me  no  further  attention.  Al- 
though trustful  and  friendly,  they  were  reserved 
and  mannerly.  From  time  to  time  there  were 
comings  and  goings  among  them.  Almost  every 
snow-dashed  incoming  stranger  gave  me  a  look 
as  he  entered,  and  then  without  the  least  sus- 
picion turned  to  his  own  feathers  and  affairs. 
With  such  honor,  I  forgot  my  frosted  nose  and 
the  blizzard.  Presently,  however,  I  crawled 
forth  and  groped  through  the  blinding  hurricane 
and  entered  a  friendly  forest,  where  wind-shaped 
trees  at  timber-line  barely  peeped  beneath  the 
drifted  snow. 

[•*  The  rosy  finch,  the  brown-capped  leucosticte 
of  the  Rockies  (in  the  Sierra  it  is  the  gray- 
crowned)  ,  is  a  little  larger  than  a  junco  and  is  one 
of  the  bravest  and  most  trusting  of  the  winged 
mountaineers.  It  is  the  most  numerous  of  the 
resident  bird-population.  These  cheery  little 
bits  live  in  the  mountain  snows,  rarely  descend- 
ing below  timber-line.  Occasionally  they  nest 
as  high  as  thirteen  thousand  five  hundred  feet. 
-  The  largest  bird  resident  of  the  snowy  heights 
is  the  ptarmigan.    Rarely  does   this  bird   de- 

in 


scend  below  the  timber-line.  But  a  late  and 
prolonged  winter  storm  may  drive  him  and  his 
neighbor  the  rosy  finch  a  mile  or  so  down  the 
slopes.  The  first  fine  day  he  is  back  again  to 
the  happy  heights.  The  ptarmigan  lives  in  the 
heathery  growths  among  huge  rocky  debris. 
Much  of  the  winter-time  he  shelters  himself  in 
deeply  penetrating  holes  or  runs  in  the  com- 
pacted snow.  His  food  consists  of  the  seeds  and 
buds  of  alpine  plants,  grasses,  and  insects.  His 
ways  remind  one  of  a  grouse,  though  he  is  a 
smaller  bird.  During  winter  he  appears  in  suit 
of  white,  stockings  and  all.  In  spring  a  few 
black  and  cinnamon-colored  feathers  are  added, 
and  by  midsummer  his  dress  is  grayish-brown. 
During  all  seasons  he  is  fairly  well  concealed 
from  enemies  by  the  protective  coloration  of  his 
clothes,  and  he  depends  largely  upon  this  for 
protection.  He  is  preyed  upon  by  the  weasel, 
fox,  bear,  eagle,  and  lion. 

Although  the  mountain-tops  have  only  a  few 
resident  birds,  they  have  numerous  summer 
bird  builders  and  sojourners.  Many  birds  nest 
in  these  heights  instead  of  going  to  similar  con- 

114 


TUifo  SofR  of  Qrtlounfoin^ummtfs 

ditions  in  the  great  Arctic  Circle  nursery.  Thus 
most  birds  met  with  in  the  heights  during  the 
summer  season  are  the  migratory  ones.  Among 
the  summer  residents  are  the  American  pipit, 
the  white-crowned  sparrow,  and  the  gray- 
headed  junco,  the  latter  occasionally  raising  two 
broods  in  a  summer.  Here,  too,  in  autumn  come 
flocks  of  robins  and  other  birds  for  late  berries 
before  starting  southward. 

The  golden  eagle  may  soar  above  the  peaks 
during  all  the  seasons,  but  he  can  hardly  be 
classed  as  a  resident,  for  much  of  the  winter  he 
spends  in  the  lower  slopes  of  the  mountains. 
Early  in  the  spring  he  appears  in  the  high  places 
and  nests  among  the  crags,  occasionally  twelve 
thousand  feet  above  sea-level.  The  young 
eaglets  are  fed  in  part  upon  spring  lamb  from 
the  near-by  wild  flocks. 

One  day,  while  in  a  bleak  upland  above  the 
timber-line,  I  paused  by  a  berg-filled  lake,  a 
miniature  Arctic  Ocean,  with  barren  rock- 
bound  shores.  A  partly  snow-piled,  half-frozen 
moor  stretched  away  into  an  arctic  distance. 
Everything  was  silent.  Near  by  a  flock  of  ptar- 

ii5 


migan  fed  upon  the  buds  of  a  clump  of  arctic 
willow  that  was  dwarfed  almost  out  of  existence. 
I  felt  as  though  in  the  polar  world.  "  Here  is  the 
environment  of  the  Eskimo,"  I  discoursed  to 
myself.  "He  ought  to  be  found  in  this  kind  of 
place.  Here  are  icebergs,  frozen  tundras,  white 
ptarmigan,  dwarf  willows,  treeless  distances. 
If  arctic  plants  were  transported  down  here  on 
the  Big  Ice  Floe,  surely  some  Eskimo  must  have 
been  swept  along.  Why  did  n't  he  stay?  The 
climate  was  better,  but  perhaps  he  missed  his 
blubber  and  sea  food,  and  there  was  no  mid- 
night sun  and  the  nights  were  extremely  short. 
The  pale  and  infrequent  aurora  borealis  must 
have  reminded  him  of  better  nights,  if  not  better 
days.  Anyway,  even  for  the  Eskimo,  there  is  no 
place  like  home,  even  though  it  be  in  a  domed 
and  dingy  ice  house  amid  the  eternal  snows  and 
beneath  the  wonderful  sky  of  northern  lights." 
There  are  fields  of  varied  wild  flowers.  Bril- 
liant in  color,  dainty,  beautiful,  and  graceful, 
they  appear  at  their  best  amid  the  wild  mag- 
nificence of  rocky  peaks,  alpine  lakes,  and  aged 
snow-fields,   and   on   the   far-extending  lonely 

116 


i — *^»    \_-V-kM---' 


4 


Tfctfo  $)C8  of  (mounfom^ummite 

moorlands.  Many  of  these  flowers  are  your  low- 
land friends,  slightly  dwarfed  in  some  cases,  but 
with  charms  even  fresher,  brighter,  and  more 
lovely  than  those  of  the  blooms  you  know. 
Numerous  upland  stretches  are  crowded  and 
colored  in  indescribable  richness,  —  acres  of 
purple,  blue,  and  gold.  The  flowers,  by  crowd- 
ing the  moist  outskirts  of  snow-drifts,  make 
striking  encircling  gardens  of  bloom.  In  con- 
tributed and  unstable  soil-beds,  amid  ice  and 
boulders,  they  take  romantic  rides  and  bloom 
upon  the  cold  backs  of  the  crawling  glaciers, 
and  thus  touch  with  color  and  beauty  the  most 
savage  of  wild  scenes. 

The  distribution  and  arrangement  of  the 
flowers  has  all  the  charm  of  the  irregular,  and 
for  the  most  part  is  strikingly  effective  and  de- 
lightfully artistic.  They  grow  in  bunches  and 
beds;  the  stalks  are  long  and  short;  rock  towers 
and  barren  debris  frown  on  meadow  gardens 
and  add  to  the  attractiveness  of  the  millions  of 
mixed  blossoms  that  dance  or  smile.  Ragged 
tongues  of  green  and  blossoms  extend  for  miles. 
One  of  the  peculiarities  of  a  few  of  these  plants 

117 


(Rocfig  (THounfcnn  T2?onbetrfanb 

is  that  they  have  stems  and  axes  horizontal 
rather  than  vertical.  Others  are  masses  of 
mossy,  cushion-like  bloom.  In  many  cases  there 
is  a  marked  enlargement  of  the  root-growth, 
but  the  flowers  compare  favorably  in  size, 
sweetness,  and  brilliancy  of  coloring  with  their 
lowland  relatives. 

Among  the  blossoms  that  shine  in  these  polar 
gardens  are  the  spring  beauty,  the  daisy,  the 
buttercup,  and  the  forget-me-not.  There  are 
numbers  of  the  pink  and  the  saxifrage  families, 
white  and  purple  monkshood,  purple  asters,  and 
goldenrod.  Whole  slopes  are  covered  with  paint- 
brushes, and  among  these  commonly  is  a  scat- 
tering of  tall,  white-tipped  wild  buckwheat. 
Some  of  these  are  scentless,  while  others  diffuse 
a  rich  perfume. 

There  are  numerous  hanging  gardens  that  are 
grander  than  all  the  kings  of  the  earth  could 
create!  White  cascades  with  the  soft,  fluttering 
veils  of  spray  pour  through  the  brilliant  bloom 
and  the  bright  green  of  the  terraces.  In  these 
gardens  may  bloom  the  bluest  of  mertensia, 
gentians,   and   polemonium,    the   brightest   of 

118 


TMo  fotb  of  (mountotwgumtmte 

yellow  avens,  the  ruddy  stonccrop,  and  gail- 
lardias  as  handsome  as  any  black-eyed  Susan; 
then  there  is  a  fine  scattering  of  shooting-stars, 
starworts,  pentstemons  of  prettiest  shades,  and 
the  tall  and  stately  columbine,  a  burst  of  silver 
and  blue. 

Many  of  the  polar  plants  that  bloom  in  this 
Arctic  world  were  probably  brought  here  from 
the  Arctic  Circle  by  the  vast  and  prolonged  flow 
of  ice  from  the  north  during  the  last  ice  age. 
Stranded  here  by  the  receding,  melting  ice, 
they  are  growing  up  with  the  country  under  con- 
ditions similar  to  those  in  the  Northland.  They 
are  quick  to  seize  and  beautify  each  new  soil- 
bed  that  appears,  —  soil  exposed  by  the  shrink- 
ing of  snow-fields,  piled  by  landslides,  washed 
down  by  water,  or  made  by  the  dropped  or  de- 
posited sweepings  of  the  winds. 

Bees  and  butterflies  follow  the  flowers,  and 
every  wild  garden  has  the  buzz  of  busy  wings 
and  the  painted  sails  of  idle  ones.  Mountain 
sheep  occasionally  pose  and  group  among  the 
flowers  and  butterflies.  Often  sheep,  crags, 
ptarmigan,  and  green  spaces,  flowers,  and  water- 

119 


(Rocflp  (fllouttfain  TDonbttfcmfc 

falls  are  caught  in  one  small  space  that  sweeps 
up  into  the  blue  and  cloud  in  one  grand  picture. 

In  many  localities  there  are  such  numbers  of 
dwarfed  plants  that  one  may  blunder  through 
a  fairy  flower-garden  without  seeing  it.  To  see 
these  tiny  flowers  at  their  best,  one  needs  to  lie 
down  and  use  a  reading-glass.  There  are  dimin- 
utive bellflowers  that  rise  only  half  an  inch  above 
the  earth  and  masses  of  cushion  pinks  and  tiny 
phlox  still  finer  and  shorter. 

The  Arctic-Alpine  zone,  with  its  cloud  and 
bright  sunshine,  rests  upon  the  elevated  and 
broken  world  of  the  Rockies.  This  realm  is  full 
of  interest  through  all  the  seasons,  and  with  its 
magnificence  are  lovely  places,  brilliant  flowers, 
and  merry  birds  to  cheer  its  solitudes.  During 
winter  these  polar  mountain-stretches  have  a 
strange  charm,  and  many  a  time  my  snowshoe 
tracks  have  left  dotted  trails  upon  their  snowy 
distances. 

These  cheerful  wild  gardens  are  threatened 
with  ruin.  Cattle  and  sheep  are  invading  them 
farther  and  farther,  and  leaving  ruin  behind. 
With  their  steep  slopes,  coarse  soil,  and  shallow 

120 


TUtfo  $ot&  of  (mounfom^ummtfs 

root-growths  these  alpine  growths  cannot  en- 
dure pasturage.  The  biting,  the  pulling,  and 
the  choppy  hoof-action  are  ruinous.  Destined 
to  early  ruin  if  pastured,  and  having  but  lit- 
tle value  when  so  used,  these  sky  gardens 
might  rightly  be  kept  unimpaired  for  ourselves. 
They  would  make  delightful  National  Parks. 
They  have  a  rapidly  increasing  value  for  parks. 
Used  for  recreation  places,  they  would  have  a 
high  commercial  value;  and  thus  used  they 
would  steadily  pay  dividends  in  humanity. 


^ome  $on$t  JfyiBtotp 


<^ome  $ovtet  ffyiBtoty 

jfwo  picturesque  pine  stumps  stood  for  years 
V/'  in  the  edge  of  a  grove  near  my  cabin.  They 
looked  as  old  as  the  hills.  Although  they  had 
wasted  a  little  through  weathering,  they  showed 
no  sign  of  decay.  Probably  they  were  the  ruins 
of  yellow  pine  trees  that  before  my  day  had 
perished  in  a  forest  fire.  The  heat  of  the  fire  that 
had  caused  their  death  had  boiled  the  pores  of 
these  stumps  full  of  pitch.  They  were  thus  pre- 
served, and  would  endure  a  long,  long  time. 

I  often  wondered  how  old  they  were.  A  chance 
to  get  this  information  came  one  morning 
when  a  number  of  old  pines  that  grew  around 
these  stumps  were  blown  over.  Among  those 
that  went  down  were  three  large  and  ancient 
yellow  pines  and  several  smaller  lodge-pole 
pines.  These  I  dissected  and  studied,  with  the 
idea  that  their  annual  wood  rings,  together  with 
the  scars  and  embossments,  might  give  informa- 

125 


tion  concerning  the  death  of  the  old  brown-gray 
stumps. 

Two  of  the  yellow  pines  showed  two  hundred 
and  fifty-six  annual  rings;  the  other  showed  two 
hundred  and  fifty-five.  All  carried  fire  scars, 
received  in  the  year  1781.  Apparently,  then, 
the  stumps  had  been  dead  and  weathering  since 
1 78 1.  The  annual  rings  in  the  overthrown  lodge- 
poles  showed  that  they  started  to  grow  in  1782. 
Lodge-pole  pines  commonly  spring  up  immedi- 
ately after  a  fire;  these  had  'apparently  taken 
possession  of  the  ground  as  soon  as  it  was  laid 
bare  by  the  fire  that  had  killed  and  partly  con- 
sumed the  two  yellow  pines  and  injured  the 
three  scarred  ones.  Since  the  lodge-poles  were 
free  from  fire  scars,  since  the  yellow  pine  showed 
no  scar  after  1781,  and  since  all  these  trees  had 
stood  close  about  the  stumps,  it  was  plain  that 
the  stumps  were  the  remnants  of  trees  that 
perished  in  a  forest  fire  in  1781. 

Later,  a  number  of  trees  elsewhere  in  the 
grove  were  called  upon  to  testify,  and  these 
told  a  story  that  agreed  with  that  of  the  trees 
that   had  stood   close  to  the   stumps.    These 

126 


A    w  ESTERN    YELLOW    PINE 


stumps  are  now  the   newel-posts  in  a  rustic 
stairway. 

Near  my  home  on  the  slope  of  Long's  Peak 
are  the  records  of  an  extraordinary  succession 
of  forest  fires.  During  the  last  two  hundred  and 
fifty  years  eight  large  fires  and  numerous  small 
ones  have  occurred.  Each  left  a  black,  fire-en- 
graved date-mark.  The  dates  of  some  of  these 
fires  are  1675,  1707,  1753,  1781,  1842,  1864, 
1878,  1885,  and  1900.  Each  fire  burned  over 
from  a  few  hundred  to  a  few  thousand  acres.  In 
part,  nature  promptly  reforested  after  each  fire; 
consequently  some  of  the  later  fires  swept  over 
areas  that  had  been  burned  over  by  the  earlier 
ones.  Here  and  there  a  fire-scarred  tree,  escap- 
ing with  its  life,  lived  on  to  preserve  in  its  rings 
the  date  of  the  conflagration.  In  one  old  pine 
I  found  seven  widely  separated  scars  that  told 
of  seven  different  fires.  In  addition  to  the  rec- 
ords in  isolated  trees,  there  were  records  also 
in  many  injured  trees  in  groves  that  had  sur- 
vived and  in  ragged  forest-edges  where  forest 
fires  had  stopped.  An  excellent  check  on  the 
evidence  given   by   the  annual   rings  of   fire- 

127 


(Roc6g  (mountain  TPon&etfanb 

scarred  trees  was  found  in  the  age  of  the  new 
tree-growth  that  came  up  in  the  fire-swept  terri- 
tory in  which,  or  on  the  borders  of  which,  were 
the  telltale  fire-injured  trees. 

Some  fires  swept  so  clean  that  they  left  be- 
hind no  date  of  their  ravages,  but  here  and  there 
the  character  of  the  forest  and  of  the  soil  in 
which  it  stood  made  me  feel  certain  that  the 
growth  had  arisen  from  the  ashes  of  a  fire,  and 
that  I  could  tell  the  extent  of  the  fire.  In  most 
localities  the  fire-killed  forest  is  at  once  re- 
stored by  nature.  That  ever  enthusiastic  sower, 
the  wind,  reseeds  most  burned  areas  within  a 
year.  Burns  on  the  Western  mountains  com- 
monly are  covered  with  young  lodge-pole  or 
aspen  within  three  years.  There  are  a  few  dry 
wind-swept  slopes  or  places  left  rocky  for  which 
years  or  even  centuries  may  be  required  to  re- 
earth  and  reforest. 

Some  members  of  the  Pine  Family  endure 
fire  much  better  than  others.  The  "big  tree," 
the  redwood,  and  the  yellow  and  sugar  pines 
will  survive  far  hotter  fires  than  their  relatives, 
for  their  vitals  are  protected  by  a  thick  sheath 

128 


of  slow-burning  bark.  The  Western  yellow  pine 
is  one  of  the  best  fire-fighters  in  the  forest  world. 
Its  vitals  appear  able  to  endure  unusual  heat 
without  death,  and  it  will  survive  fires  that  kill 
neighboring  trees  of  other  kinds.  In  old  trees 
the  trunk  and  large  limbs  are  thickly  covered 
with  heat-and-fire-resisting  bark.  In  examining 
a  number  of  these  old  fellows  that  were  at  last 
laid  low  by  snow  or  landslide  or  the  axe,  I  found 
that  some  had  triumphantly  survived  a  num- 
ber of  fiery  ordeals  and  two  or  three  lightning- 
strokes.  One  pine  of  eight  centuries  carried  the 
scars  of  four  thunderbolts  and  seven  wounds 
that  were  received  from  fires  decades  apart. 

The  deciduous,  or  broad-leaf,  trees  resist 
fires  better  than  the  coniferous,  or  evergreen, 
trees.  Pines  and  spruces  take  fire  much  more 
readily  than  oaks  and  maples,  because  of  the 
resinous  sap  that  circulates  through  them; 
moreover,  the  pines  and  spruces  when  heated 
give  off  an  inflammable  gas  which,  rising  in  front 
of  a  forest  fire,  adds  to  the  heat  and  destruc- 
tiveness,  and  the  eagerness  of  the  blaze.  Con- 
sidered in  relation  to  a  fire,  the  coniferous  forest 

129 


(Roc%  (mountain  TUontetrtmrt 

is  a  poor  risk  because  it  is  more  inflammable 
than  a  deciduous  one. 

Another  advantage  possessed  by  broad-leaf 
trees  lies  in  the  rapid  growth  of  their  seedlings. 
Surface  fires  annihilate  most  tiny  trees.  Two- 
year-old  chestnuts,  maples,  and,  in  fact,  many 
of  the  broad-leaf  youngsters,  are  three  or  more 
feet  high,  and  are  able  to  survive  a  severe  fire; 
but  two-year-old  white  pine,  Engelmann  spruce, 
or  long-leaf  pine  are  barely  two  inches  high,  — 
just  fuzzy-topped  matches  stuck  in  the  earth 
that  perish  in  a  flash  from  a  single  breath  of 
flame. 

The  ability  to  send  up  sprouts,  which  most 
deciduous  trees  possess,  is  also  a  very  great  ad- 
vantage in  the  fight  against  fire.  A  fire  may 
destroy  a  deciduous  forest  and  all  its  seeds 
without  injuring  the  potent  roots  beneath  the 
surface.  The  year  following  the  fire,  most  of 
these  roots  send  up  sprouts  that  swiftly  grow 
to  replace  the  fallen  forest.  Among  the  so- 
called  Pine  Family,  the  ability  to  send  up 
sprouts  or  shoots  is  limited  to  a  few  kinds,  most 
prominent  of  which  is  the  redwood. 

130 


^omt  §Qxtet  JEjistotp 

Repeated  forest  fires  have  injured  enormously 
the  Southern  hardwood  forests;  they  have  dam- 
aged millions  of  trees  so  that  they  have  be- 
come hollow  or  punky-hearted.  These  fires  have 
burned  off  limbs  or  burned  into  the  trunks  or 
the  roots  and  made  openings  through  which 
many  kinds  of  fungi  have  entered  the  hearts  of 
the  trees,  to  doom  them  to  rot  and  decay. 

Forest  fires  have  been  common  through  the 
ages.  Charcoal  has  been  found  in  fossil.  This 
has  a  possible  age  of  a  million  years.  Charred 
logs  have  been  found,  in  Dakota  and  elsewhere, 
several  hundred  feet  beneath  the  surface.  The 
big  trees  of  California  have  fire  scars  that  are 
two  thousand  years  old. 

The  most  remarkable  forest  fire  records  that 
I  ever  saw  were  found  in  a  giant  California  red- 
wood. This  tree  was  felled  a  few  years  ago.  Its 
trunk  was  cut  to  pieces  and  studied  by  scien- 
tific men,  who  from  the  number  of  its  annual 
rings  found  the  year  of  its  birth,  and  also  de- 
ciphered the  dates  of  the  various  experiences 
the  tree  had  had  with  fire. 

This  patriarch  had  stood  three  hundred  feet 

131 


(Rocfy>  (mountain  TUonbetrfanb 

high,  was  sound  to  the  core,  and  had  lived 
through  two  thousand  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
one  years.  Its  existence  began  in  the  year  271 
B.C.  After  more  than  five  centuries  of  life,  in 
a.d.  245  it  was  in  the  pathway  of  a  forest  fire 
from  which  it  received  a  bad  burn  on  the  lower 
trunk.  It  was  one  hundred  and  five  years  be- 
fore this  burn  was  fully  covered  with  tissue  and 
bark. 

Following  this  fire  came  the  peaceful  pro- 
cession of  twelve  centuries.  Eleven  hundred 
and  ninety-six  times  the  golden  poppies  came 
to  glorify  the  green  hills  of  spring,  while  the 
songs  of  mating  birds  filled  woods  and  meadows. 
More  than  a  thousand  times  the  aspens  ripened 
and  scattered  their  golden  leaves,  while  this 
serene  evergreen  grew  and  towered  more  and 
more  noble  through  the  centuries. 

Elsewhere  the  forests  were  dim  with  smoke, 
and  on  the  Sierra  during  these  centuries  the 
heroic  "big  trees"  received  many  a  scar  from 
fire.  But  not  until  1441  did  fire  again  try  this 
veteran.  Soon  after  this  burn  was  healed  there 
came  a  third  fire.   This  was  less  injurious  than 

132 


the  preceding  ones,  for  the  wound  that  it  in- 
flicted healed  in  half  a  century. 

Higher  and  more  stately  the  tree  grew,  and  in 
1729  it  attained  the  age  of  two  thousand  years. 
At  the  age  of  two  thousand  and  eighty-eight 
years  the  fourth  fire  attacked  it.  This  fire 
burned  an  eighteen-foot  scar  upon  the  trunk  of 
the  old  tree.  In  1900,  after  the  lapse  of  almost 
a  century,  only  a  small  part  of  this  wound  was 
overgrown.  This  year,  1900,  came  the  reaper, 
the  axeman,  who  laid  low  this  aged  and  monu- 
mental tree! 

What  starts  forest  fires?  Some  are  started  by 
lightning ;  others  are  kindled  by  meteors  that  are 
flung  from  the  sky,  or  by  fire  that  is  hurled  or 
poured  from  a  volcano;  a  few  are  caused  by 
spontaneous  combustion;  and  many  are  set  by 
man.  Down  through  the  ages  primitive  and 
civilized  men  have  frequently  set  fire  to  the 
forest.  These  fires  are  set  sometimes  acciden- 
tally, sometimes  intentionally.  The  forest  has 
been  fired  to  drive  out  game,  to  improve  pas- 
turage, to  bewilder  the  enemy  during  war,  and 
to  clear  the  land  for  the  plow. 

133 


During  one  of  my  Colorado  camping-trips  a 
high  October  wind  brought  me  the  information 
that  spruce  wood  was  burning  near  by.  While 
I  was  searching  for  the  fire  in  the  thick  needle 
carpet  of  the  forest  floor,  a  spark  from  above 
settled  before  me.  A  fire  was  sputtering  and 
starting  in  a  tree  top  about  thirty  feet  above  the 
earth.  This  fire  was  starting  where  a  dead  lean- 
ing tree-trunk  was  rasping  and  rubbing  against 
an  upright  one.  The  bark  of  the  standing  tree 
was  powdered  and  tufted  with  wood-dust  which 
had  been  ground  by  friction  from  the  trunks  as 
they  swayed  and  rotated  in  the  wind.  This  in- 
flammable wood-dust,  together  with  accumu- 
lated bark-bits  and  needles,  had  been  set  on  fire 
from  the  heat  generated  by  these  two  big  sticks 
rubbing  together.  Plainly  this  was  a  friction  fire. 
The  incessant  swaying  of  treetops  in  the  tire- 
less wind  occasionally  causes  a  smoke  from 
friction  at  points  where  overlapping  limbs  or 
entangled  trees  are  rubbing.  Within  a  few  min- 
utes after  my  discovery,  this  fire  was  roaring 
eagerly  through  the  treetops. 

Friction  fires  are  rare,  but  my  old  notebooks 

134 


tell  of  numerous  fires  that  were  set  by  lightning. 
Before  this  fire,  which  was  in  the  Sangre  de 
Cristo  Mountains,  had  died  out,  a  lightning-set 
fire  in  the  mountains  of  central  Colorado  had 
attracted  my  attention  with  massive,  magnifi- 
cent smoke-clouds,  which  were  two  or  three 
thousand  feet  above  the  mountain-tops.  Though 
thirty  miles  distant,  these  clouds  occasionally 
took  on  the  bossy  white  splendor  of  big  cumuli 
assembling  for  summer  rain.  I  resolved  to  see 
the  fire  at  close  range. 

Until  burned  territory  was  reached,  I  fol- 
lowed along  sky-line  ridges  through  changing 
conditions  of  clear  sky,  smoke,  and  falling  ashes, 
ready  for  swift  retreat  down  a  slope  in  case  the 
fire  advanced  under  smoke  cover  and  surprised 
me.  The  burn  was  entered  at  the  first  edge  I 
reached.  Millions  of  seared  and  blackened  trees 
were  standing  steadfastly  where  they  had  died 
at  their  post.  All  twigs  and  leafage  were  burned 
away,  but  the  majority  of  the  trees  still  carried 
their  larger  limbs  and  patches  of  bark.  In 
places  only  the  tree-trunk,  a  fire-carved  totem 
pole,    remained.     Whirlwinds    of    flame    had 

135 


(Roc%>  (piounfcun  TUonbetrfcmb 

moved,  and  in  places  every  burnable  thing  on 
the  surface  was  consumed,  and  even  tree-roots 
were  burned  out  two  and  three  feet  beneath  the 
surface. 

Though  weirdly  interesting,  these  ashen 
fields  of  desolation  were  not  wholly  lifeless. 
Here,  as  elsewhere,  feasters  came  to  banquet, 
and  good  fortune  brought  favorites  to  the  scene 
of  panic  and  death.  Flocks  of  gorged  magpies 
were  about,  and  unwontedly  bold  coyotes,  both 
filled  and  foraging,  were  frequently  met  with. 
At  one  place  a  half-dozen  beaver  were  portaging 
round  a  tumble  of  charred  tree-trunks  that  ob- 
structed the  brook-channel.  Fire  had  destroyed 
the  food-supply,  and  the  beaver  were  seeking 
home  and  harvest  in  other  scenes.  A  grizzly 
bear  was  wading  their  pond  and  feasting  on  the 
dead  trout  that  floated  on  the  surface.  Two 
black  bears,  despite  terrible  threats  from  the 
grizzly,  claimed  all  the  fish  that  came  within 
reach  of  the  shore.  They  discreetly  kept  out  of 
the  pond. 

Two  fawns  and  their  mother  lay  dead  at  the 
foot  of  a  cliff.    Either  blinded  or  terrorized  by 

136 


fire  or  smoke,  they  apparently  had  leaped  or 
fallen  to  death.  As  I  gained  the  top  in  climbing 
to  investigate,  an  eagle  swooped  angrily  at  me 
from  a  topless  trunk.  Her  mate  with  scorched 
feathers  lay  on  the  rocks  near  by.  On  returning 
a  few  days  later  I  found  her  still  watching  the 
lifeless  one  from  the  same  perch  in  the  dead 
tree. 

In  the  heart  of  the  burned  tract  was  a  thirty- 
or-forty-acre  tract  of  forest  that  had  escaped 
the  fire.  It  was  surrounded  with  wide  though 
broken  barriers  of  rock  ledges.  In  this  green 
oasis  were  numerous  wild-folk  refugees.  Chip- 
munks, rats,  woodchucks,  and  birds  were  star- 
tlingly  abundant,  but  no  big  game.  Apparently 
the  home  people  had  welcomed  the  refugees,  or 
had  received  them  indifferently.  The  only  fight 
noticed  was  between  mountain  rats.  However, 
this  crowding  and  overrunning  of  territory  when 
the  exciting  fire  was  over,  probably  made  many 
terrible  pages  of  animal  history,  before  exodus 
and  death  brought  a  normal  readjustment  of 
life  to  the  territory. 

Wandering  on  across  the  burn  toward  the 

137 


(Roc6j>  Qllounfain  T3t?onbev(anb 

fire-line,  I  came  to  the  place  where  a  ragged- 
edged  and  beautiful  glacier  meadow  had  re- 
posed, a  poetic  park  among  the  spruces  dark 
and  tall.  Commonly  these  meadows  are  suf- 
ficiently saturated  to  defy  fire,  but  this  one  was 
burning,  though  slowly  and  with  but  little 
blaze  or  smoke.  The  fire  was  working  toward 
the  centre  from  the  edges  and  eating  downward 
from  one  to  three  feet.  This  kind  of  meadow 
usually  carries  a  covering  stratum  of  a  kind  of 
peat  or  turf  which  is  composed  almost  entirely 
of  matted  grass  or  sedge  roots  that  are  almost 
free  from  earthy  or  mineral  matter.  These  mead- 
ows lack  warmth  or  soil  sufficient  to  germinate 
tree  seeds  or  to  grow  trees.  Often  they  remain 
beautiful  treeless  gardens  for  generations,  while 
wind  and  wash  slowly  bring  sediment,  or  until 
a  flood  or  landslip  brings  soil.  The  deep  burning 
of  the  surface  and  the  consequent  deposit  of 
ash  on  the  new  surface  probably  offered  an 
abiding-place  to  the  next  adventurous  tree  seeds. 
Glacier  meadows  occasionally  have  this  kind  of 
ending. 

Two  prospectors  were  found  at  work  in  a 
138 


spruce  forest  near  which  the  fire  started  but 
which  it  did  not  reach  for  a  week.  These  men 
said  that,  an  hour  or  so  after  a  thunder-shower 
of  a  few  days  before,  one  of  the  brown  beetle- 
killed  pines  had  sent  up  a  smoke-column.  Ap- 
parently lightning  had  struck  this  tree.  The 
following  day  a  small  fire  was  burning  near  it. 
This  expanded  into  the  forest  fire.  Commonly 
it  is  a  standing  dead  tree  that  is  set  on  fire  by 
the  lightning,  but  the  bolt  sometimes  fires  ac- 
cumulated trash  around  the  roots  where  it 
enters  the  earth. 

Within  this  extensive  burn  the  trees  had 
stood  from  thirty  to  one  hundred  and  forty  feet 
high  and  from  two  hundred  to  three  thousand 
to  the  acre,  and  they  were  from  thirty  to  four 
hundred  and  fifty  years  old.  A  majority  were 
about  two  centuries  old.  The  predominating 
kinds  were  yellow  pine,  Douglas  spruce,  Engel- 
mann  spruce,  and  aspen.  Different  altitudes, 
forest  fires,  and  a  variety  of  slope-exposures, 
along  with  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  each 
species,  had  distributed  these  in  almost  pure 
stands,  an  area  of  each  kind  to  itself.  There  was 

139 


(Rocfy)  (Wtounfcun  TUonbttfcmb 

some  overlapping  and  mixing,  but  lodge-pole 
pine  noticeably  stood  by  itself. 

Where  first  encountered,  this  fire  was  roaring 
through  a  thick  second  growth  of  lodge-pole 
pine.  Scattered  through  this  young  growth  were 
hundreds  of  dead  and  limbless  trees  killed  by  a 
fire  of  thirty  years  before.  The  preservative 
effect  of  their  fiery  death  had  kept  these  great 
pillars  sound,  though  they  had  become  checked 
and  weathered.  They  burned  slowly,  and  that 
night  while  the  fire-front  was  storming  a  ridge, 
these  columns  spread  sparks  and  flames  from 
split  sides,  or  as  gigantic  candles  blazed  only 
at  the  top.  Yellow  pines  and  Douglas  spruces 
killed  in  an  intensely  hot  fire  are  so  cooked  and 
preserved  that  they  will  resist  weathering  or  rot 
for  decades.  I  have  seen  a  few  of  these  pitchy 
broken  fellows  standing  erect  in  the  depth  of  a 
century-old  second  generation  of  forest  with  the 
arms  of  the  living  trees  about  and  above  them. 

Down  a  slope  a  fire  moves  more  slowly  and 
with  lower  temperature  than  upward  on  the 
same  slope.  A  fire  may  rush  in  a  minute  up  a 
slope  which  it  would  require  a  day  to  creep 

140 


down.  A  fire  is  more  all-consuming  in  going  up, 
and  even  after  years  have  passed,  the  remains 
left  on  a  slope  will  often  enable  one  to  deter- 
mine whether  a  fire  swept  up  or  crept  down. 
One  peculiarity  of  flames  in  young  growths  on 
steep  slopes  is  that  they  sometimes  dart  up  the 
heights  in  tongues,  leaving  narrow  ragged 
stretches  of  unburned  trees!  Usually  these 
fiery  tongues  sweep  in  a  straight  line  up  the 
slope. 

The  intense  heat  of  a  passing  fire-front  is 
withering  at  long  distances.  I  have  known  a 
fire  to  blister  aspen  clumps  that  were  seven  or 
eight  hundred  feet  from  the  nearest  burned 
trees.  The  passing  flames  may  have  been  pushed 
much  closer  than  this  by  slow  heavy  air-swells 
or  by  the  brief  blasts  of  wild  wind  rushes. 

The  habits  of  forest  fires  are  largely  deter- 
mined by  slope-inclination,  wind-speed,  and  the 
quantity  and  quality  of  the  fuel.  In  places  the 
fire  slips  quietly  along  with  low  whispering,  then 
suddenly  it  goes  leaping,  whirling,  and  roaring. 
A  fire  may  travel  less  than  one  mile  or  farther 
than  one  hundred  miles  in  a  day.    The  ever 

141 


(KocRj>  (Wounfotn  TJ?onbetfanb 

varying  slope  and  forest  conditions  in  the  moun- 
tains are  constantly  changing  the  speed  and  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  fire.  Where  all  conditions  are 
favorable,  it  sweeps  level  stretches  at  a  mile- 
a-minute  speed  and  rolls  up  slopes  with  the 
speed  of  sound! 

One  evening  I  climbed  a  high  ridge  that  stood 
about  half  a  mile  in  front  of  a  heavily  forested 
peninsula  which  the  fire-front  would  reach  in  a 
few  hours.  The  fire  was  advancing  across  the 
valley  with  a  front  of  about  two  miles.  On 
arriving  at  the  top  of  the  ridge,  I  came  up  be- 
hind a  grizzly  bear  seated  on  his  haunches  like 
a  dog,  intently  watching  the  fire  below.  On 
discovering  me  he  took  a  second  look  before 
concentrating  his  mind  on  a  speedy  retreat. 
Along  the  ridge  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  dis- 
tant, a  number  of  mountain  sheep  could  be  seen 
through  the  falling  ashes,  with  heads  toward 
the  fire,  but  whether  they  were  excited  or  simply 
curious  could  not  be  determined. 

The  forested  peninsula  which  extended  from 
between  two  forested  canons  had  a  number 
of  meadow  openings  on  the  slopes  closest  to  me. 

142 


Around  these  were  many  brilliant  fiery  dis- 
plays. Overheated  trees  in  or  across  these 
openings  often  became  enveloped  in  robes  of 
invisible  gas  far  in  advance  of  the  flames.  This 
gas  flashed  and  flared  up  before  the  tree 
blazed,  and  occasionally  it  convoyed  the  flames 
across  openings  one  hundred  feet  or  so  above 
the  earth.  Heated  isolated  trees  usually  went 
with  a  gushing  flash.  At  other  places  this  flam- 
ing sometimes  lasted  several  seconds,  and, 
when  seen  through  steamy  curtains  or  clouds  of 
smoke,  appeared  like  geysers  of  red  fire. 

At  times  there  were  vast  scrolls  and  whirling 
spirals  of  sparks  above  and  around  the  torren- 
tial, upstreaming  flames  of  the  fire-front.  Mil- 
lions of  these  sparks  were  sometimes  formed  by 
high  outflowing  air  streams  into  splendid  and 
far-reaching  milky  ways.  In  moments  of  general 
calm  the  sky  was  deeply  filled  with  myriads  of 
excited  sparks,  which  gradually  quieted,  then 
floated  beautifully,  peacefully  up  to  vanish  in 
the  night. 

Meantime  the  fire-front  was  pushed  by  wind- 
currents  and  led  by  ridges.    By  the  time  the 

143 


fire-line  had  advanced  to  the  steeper  slopes  it 
was  one  vast  U  about  three  miles  long.  Its 
closed  end  was  around  the  peninsula  toward  me. 
The  fire-front  rushed  upward  through  the  dense 
forest  of  the  peninsula  steeps  more  swiftly  than 
the  wildest  avalanche  could  have  plunged  down. 
The  flames  swept  across  three-hundred-foot 
grassy  openings  as  easily  as  breakers  roll  in 
across  a  beach.  Up  the  final  two  thousand  feet 
there  were  magnificent  outbursts  and  sheets  of 
flame  with  accompanying  gale  and  stormy- 
ocean  roars.  Terrific  were  the  rushes  of  whirled 
smoke-and-flame  clouds  of  brown,  ashen  green, 
and  sooty  black.  There  were  lurid  and  volcanic 
effects  in  molten  red  and  black,  while  tattered 
yellow  flames  rushed,  rolled,  and  tumbled  every- 
where. 

An  uprushing,  explosive  burst  of  flames  from 
all  sides  wrapped  and  united  on  the  summit. 
For  a  minute  a  storm  of  smoke  and  flame  filled 
the  heavens  with  riot.  The  wild,  irresistible, 
cyclonic  rush  of  fiery  wind  carried  scores  of  tree- 
limbs  and  many  blazing  treetops  hundreds  of 
feet  above  the  summit.    Fire  and  sparks  were 

144 


hurled  explosively  outward,  and  a  number  of 
blazing  treetops  rushed  off  in  gale-currents. 
One  of  these  blazing  tops  dropped,  a  destructive 
torch,  in  a  forest  more  than  a  mile  distant  from 
the  summit! 


QUounfoin  &&&& 


(tttouttfaitt  BaUs 

/JpTi(;n  up  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  are-  lakes 
M*)  which  shine  as  brightly  as  dewdrops  in  a 
garden.  These  mountains  are  a  vast  hanging 
garden  in  which  flowers  and  waterfalls,  forests 
and  lakes,  slopes  and  terraces,  group  and  mingle 
in  lovely  grandeur.  Hundreds  of  these  lakes  and 
tarns  rest  in  this  broken  topography.  Though 
most  of  them  are  small,  they  vary  in  size  from 
one  acre  to  two  thousand  acres.  Scores  of  these 
lakes  have  not  been  named.  They  form  a  har- 
monious part  of  the  architecture  of  the  moun- 
tains. Their  basins  were  patiently  fashioned  by 
the  Ice  King.  Of  the  thousand  or  more  lakes  in 
the  Colorado  mountains  only  a  few  are  not  gla- 
cial. The  overwhelming  majority  rest  in  basins 
that  were  gouged  and  worn  in  solid  rock  by 
glaciers.  John  Muir  says  that  Nature  used  the 
delicate  snowflake  for  a  tool  with  which  to 
fashion  lake-basins  and  to  sculpture  the  moun- 
tains.   He  also  says:  "Every  lake  in  the  Sierra 

149 


is  a  glacier  lake.  Their  basins  were  not  merely 
remodeled  and  scoured  out  by  this  mighty  agent, 
but  in  the  first  place  were  eroded  from  the 
solid."  The  Rocky  Mountain  lakes  are  set  deep 
in  canons,  mounted  on  terraces,  and  strung  like 
uncut  gems  along  alpine  streams.  The  boulders 
in  many  of  their  basins  are  as  clean  and  new  as 
though  just  left  by  the  constructive  ice. 

These  lakes  are  scattered  through  the  high 
mountains  of  Colorado,  the  greater  number 
lying  between  the  altitudes  of  ten  thousand  and 
twelve  thousand  feet.  Few  were  formed  above 
the  altitude  of  twelve  thousand,  and  most  of 
those  below  ten  thousand  now  are  great  flower- 
pots and  hold  a  flower-illumined  meadow  or  a 
grove.  Timber-line  divides  this  lake-belt  into 
two  nearly  equal  parts.  Many  are  small  tarns 
with  rocky  and  utterly  wild  surroundings.  Cir- 
cular, elliptical,  and  long,  narrow  forms  pre- 
dominate. Some  lie  upon  a  narrow  terrace  along 
the  base  of  a  precipice.  Many  are  great  circular 
wells  at  the  bottom  of  a  fall ;  others  are  long  and 
narrow,  filling  canons  from  wall  to  wall. 

Glaciers  the  world  over  have  been  the  chief 
150 


(THounfotn  Ba&tB 

makers  of  lake-basins,  large  and  small.  These 
basins  were  formed  in  darkness,  and  hundreds 
and  even  thousands  of  years  may  have  been 
required  for  the  ice  to  carve  and  set  the  gems 
whose  presence  now  adds  so  much  to  the  light 
and  beauty  of  the  rugged  mountain-ranges.  The 
ponderous  glaciers  or  ice  rivers  in  descending 
from  the  mountain-summits  came  down  steep 
slopes  or  precipitous  walls  and  bore  irresistibly 
against  the  bottom.  The  vast  weight  of  these 
embankments  of  ice  moving  almost  end-on, 
mixed  with  boulders,  tore  and  wore  excava- 
tions into  the  solid  rock  at  the  bottom  of  each 
high,  steep  descent. 

Nature's  ways  are  interestingly  complicated. 
Both  the  number  and  the  location  of  many  of 
these  glacier  lakes  are  due  in  part  to  the  pre- 
vailing direction  of  the  wind  during  the  last 
glacial  epoch.  This  is  especially  true  of  those 
in  the  Snowy  Range  of  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
which  fronts  the  Great  Plains.  The  majority 
of  the  lakes  in  this  range  are  situated  on  its 
eastern  slope.  Westerly  winds  undoubtedly 
prevailed  on  these  mountains  during  the  de- 

151 


(Rocflg  (THounfain  T27onberfanb 

positing  of  the  snows  which  formed  and  main- 
tained the  glaciers  that  excavated  these  lake- 
basins.  As  a  result,  much  of  the  snow  which  fell 
on  the  summit  and  its  westerly  slope  was  swept 
across  and  deposited  on  the  eastern  slope,  thus 
producing  on  the  eastern  side  deeper  ice,  more 
glaciers,  and  more  appreciable  erosion  from  the 
glaciers.  The  eastern  summit  of  this  range  is 
precipitous  and  is  deeply  cut  by  numerous  ice- 
worn  cirques  which  extend  at  right  angles  to 
the  trend  of  this  range.  These  cirques  fre- 
quently lie  close  together,  separated  by  a  thin 
precipitous  wall,  or  ridge.  On  the  westerly  side 
of  the  range  the  upper  slopes  descend  into  the 
lowlands  through  slopes  and  ridges  rounded  and 
but  little  broken.  Over  these  it  is  possible  to 
ride  a  horse  to  the  summit,  while  foot  travel  and 
careful  climbing  over  precipitous  rocky  walls  is 
in  most  places  required  to  gain  the  summit  from 
the  east. 

Westerly  winds  still  blow  strongly,  sometimes 
for  weeks,  and  the  present  scanty  snowfall  is 
largely  swept  from  the  western  slopes  and  de- 
posited on  the  eastern  side.    So  far  as  I  know, 

1^2 


Qftounfatn  B,o&tB 

all  the  remaining  glaciers  in  the  front  ranges  are 
on  the  eastern  slope.  The  Arapahoe,  Sprague, 
Hallett,  and  Andrews  Glaciers  and  the  one  on 
Long's  Peak  are  on  the  eastern  slope.  They  are 
but  the  stubs  or  remnants  of  large  glaciers,  and 
their  presence  is  due  in  part  to  the  deep,  cool 
cirques  cut  out  by  the  former  ice-flows,  and  in 
part  to  the  snows  swept  to  them  by  prevailing 
westerly  winds. 

Though  these  lakes  vary  in  shape  and  size, 
and  though  each  is  set  in  a  different  topography, 
many  have  a  number  of  like  features  and  are 
surrounded  with  somewhat  similar  verdure. 
A  typical  lake  is  elliptical  and  about  one  fifth 
of  a  mile  long;  its  altitude  about  ten  thousand 
feet;  its  waters  clear  and  cold.  A  few  huge  rock- 
points  or  boulders  thrust  through  its  surface 
near  the  outlet.  A  part  of  its  circling  shore  is  of 
clean  granite  whose  lines  proclaim  the  former 
presence  of  the  Ice  King.  Extending  from  one 
shore  is  a  dense,  dark  forest.  One  stretch  of 
low-lying  shore  is  parklike  and  grassy,  flower- 
crowded,  and  dotted  here  and  there  with  a 
plume  of  spruce  or  fir.  By  the  outlet  is  a  filled-in 

153 


(Roc%  (Mountain  T3?onber£anb 

portion  of  the  lake  covered  with  sedge  and  wil- 
low. 

In  summer,  magpies,  woodpeckers,  nut- 
hatches, and  chickadees  live  in  the  bordering 
woods.  In  the  willows  the  white-crowned  spar- 
row builds.  By  the  outlet  or  in  the  cascades 
above  or  below  is  the  ever-cheerful  water-ouzel. 
The  solitaire  nesting  near  often  flies  across  the 
lake,  filling  the  air  with  eager  and  melodious 
song.  Along  the  shore,  gentians,  columbines, 
paintbrushes,  larkspur,  and  blue  mertensia  often 
lean  over  the  edge  and  give  the  water-margin 
the  beauty  of  their  reflected  colors. 

These  lakes  above  the  limits  of  tree-growth 
do  not  appear  desolate,  even  though  stern  peaks 
rise  far  above.  The  bits  of  flowery  meadow  or 
moorland  lying  close  or  stretching  away,  the 
songful  streams  arriving  or  departing,  soften 
their  coldness  and  give  a  welcome  to  their  rock- 
bound,  crag-piled  shores.  Mountain  sheep  are 
often  visitors.  They  come  to  drink,  or  to  feed 
and  play  in  the  sedgy  meadow  near  by.  Ptar- 
migan have  their  homes  here,  and  all  around 
them  nest  many  birds  from  the  southland. 

154 


Qtlounfcun  Ba&ts 


Into  these  lakes  swift  waters  run,  and  here 
the  snowy  cataract  leaps  in  glory.  From  the 
overshadowing  cliffs,  flattened  and  lacy  streams 
flutter  down.  During  the  summer  there  is  the 
ever-flowing  harmony,  the  endless  animation, 
of  falling  water;  and  in  winter  there  is  the 
silent  and  architectural  symphony  of  the  frozen 
waterfall.  Many  lakes  during  summer  are 
partly  edged  with  inthrusting  snow  and  ice 
piles;  from  time  to  time  fragments  of  these 
piles  break  away  and  become  miniature  ice- 
bergs in  these  small  arctic  seas. 

Although  filled  with  the  purest  and  clearest 
water,  from  a  distant  height  they  often  appear 
to  contain  a  brilliant  heavy  liquid.  Under  dif- 
ferent lights  and  from  different  points  of  view 
they  are  emerald,  opal,  inky  black,  violet,  in- 
digo-blue, and  sea-green.  I  have  approached 
one  from  a  high  distant  point,  and  as  I  de- 
scended and  waveringly  advanced,  the  lake 
took  on  a  number  of  deep  colors,  each  melting 
like  a  passing  shadow  from  one  into  the  other. 
Occasionally,  too,  it  almost  vanished  in  dull  gray 
or  flashed  up  in  molten  silver.  The  colors  shown 

iS5 


(Rocfy  (mountain  Tftonberfcmb 

were  as  vivid  as  if  made  of  the  brilliant  fire  of 
the  northern  lights.  All  these  changing  colors 
played  on  the  lake,  while  the  surrounding  peaks 
towered  in  cold  and  silent  desolation,  changeless 
except  when  occasionally  swept  with  the  filmy 
bluish  shadows  of  the  clouds. 

Below  the  timber-line  these  lakes  are  more  ap- 
pealing, and  many  in  the  midst  of  groves  and 
meadows  help  to  form  delightful  wild  parks. 
Others  are  hidden  away  in  black  forests;  tall, 
crowding  firs  and  spruces  rise  from  their  edges 
and  hide  them  completely,  even  when  one  is 
only  a  yard  or  two  from  their  shores.  I  camped 
for  a  week  within  a  stone's  throw  of  one  of  these 
forest-embowered  gems  without  suspecting  its 
presence.  Returning  to  camp  one  evening  from 
an  encircling  ramble,  I  was  startled  by  stepping 
into  a  lake-edge.  For  a  moment  I  was  puzzled. 
Instinctively  I  felt  that  my  camp  was  about  the 
width  of  the  lake  ahead  of  me.  Although  I  felt 
certain  of  my  bearings,  my  mental  processes 
were  such  that  I  was  unwilling  to  trust  this 
strange  lake.  Instead  of  walking  around  its 
poetic  shore,   I   lashed  two  water-soaked  logs 

156 


(THounfoin  %ofkt& 


together  with  willows  and  on  this  rude  raft 
made  my  way  directly  across.  My  camp  was 
within  fifty  feet  of  the  place  where  I  landed. 

Elements  of  peculiar  attractiveness  are  com- 
bined in  the  lakes  that  are  situated  along  the 
timber-line.  Some  have  a  treeless  mountain  or 
a  rugged  snow-piled  peak  rising  boldly  behind, 
and  an  acre  or  so  of  meadow  between  one  shore 
and  the  forest.  A  segment  of  wind-distorted 
trees,  a  few  enormous  rock  domes,  a  fine  pile 
of  boulders,  and  a  strip  of  willow  with  clumps  of 
spruces  and  firs  combine  to  give  a  charming 
border. 

Among  the  best  known  of  these  Colorado 
lakes  are  Grand,  Trapper's,  Bierstadt,  Trout, 
San  Cristoval,  Chicago,  Thunder,  Silver,  Mo- 
raine, and  Twin  Lakes.  Grand  Lake,  prob- 
ably the  largest,  is  about  three  miles  long  by  one 
mile  wide.  Its  basin  appears  to  be  largely  due 
to  a  morainal  dam.  The  San  Cristoval  basin 
appears  to  have  been  formed  by  a  mud  stream 
which  blockaded  a  mountain  valley.  The  lakes 
of  the  Long's  Peak  region  are  my  favorites. 
These  are  numerous  and  show  a  variety  of  forms. 

157 


(Roc8j>  QUounfoin  TDonberfanb 

Grand  Lake  and  a  few  others  lie  to  the  west; 
Thunder  Lake,  Ouzel  Lake,  and  a  dozen  others 
are  in  Wild  Basin  to  the  south;  Odessa,  Bierstadt, 
and  the  score  of  lakes  in  Loch  Vale  and  Glacier 
Gorge  are  to  the  north.  All  are  within  ten  miles 
of  the  summit  of  this  peak.  These  lakes  and 
their  splendid  mountain  setting  will  in  time  give 
scenic  fame  to  the  region. 

The  alpine  lakes  in  the  mountains  of  the  West 
are  but  little  known  to  travelers.  Many  West- 
ern people  appreciate  the  beauty  of  the  Swiss 
and  Italian  lakes  but  do  not  even  know  of  the 
existence  of  the  shining  lakes  in  their  own  moun- 
tains. But  the  unexcelled  beauty  and  grandeur 
of  these  lakes,  their  scenic  surroundings,  and 
the  happy  climate  in  which  they  repose  will  in 
due  time  give  them  fame  and  bring  countless 
travelers  to  their  shores. 

In  exploring  the  mountains  I  have  often 
camped  on  a  lake-shore.  These  camps  were 
conveniently  situated  for  the  exploration  of 
neighboring  slopes  and  the  valley  below;  or  for 
making  excursions  to  the  more  rugged  scenes, 
—  the  moraines,  snow-fields,  cirques,  and  peaks 

158 


Qftountiun  Ba&ts 


above.  Many  an  evening  after  a  day  with  the 
moraines  and  the  forests,  or  with  the  eagles  and 
the  crags,  I  have  gone  down  to  one  of  these  ideal 
camping-places.  Here  through  the  night  my 
fire  blazed  and  faded  in  the  edge  of  a  meadow 
before  a  templed  cluster  of  spruces  on  a  rocky 
rim  above  the  lake. 

Many  times  camp  was  so  situated  that 
splendid  sunsets  or  the  lingering  pink  and  silver 
afterglow  were  at  their  best  behind  a  broken 
sky-line  ridge.  My  camp-fire  was  reflected  in 
the  lake,  which  often  sparkled  as  if  enamel- 
filled  with  stars.  Across  one  corner  lay  softly 
the  inverted  Milky  Way.  Shooting  stars  passed 
like  white  rockets  through  the  silent  waters. 
The  moon  came  up  big  and  yellow  from  behind 
a  crag  and  in  the  lake  became  a  disc  of  gold. 
Many  a  night  the  cliffs  repeated  the  restlessness 
of  the  wind-shaken  water  until  the  sun  quieted 
all  with  light.  During  the  calm  nights  there 
were  hours  of  almost  unbroken  silence,  though 
at  times  and  faintly  a  far-off  waterfall  could  be 
heard,  the  bark  of  a  fox  sounded  across  the  lake, 
or  the  weird  and  merry  cries  of  the  coyote  were 

159 


(Roc%  (piounfoin  T&on&erfonb 

echoed  and  reechoed  around  the  shore.  More 
often  the  white-crowned  sparrow  sang  hope- 
fully in  the  night.  Morning  usually  was  pre- 
ceded by  a  horizon  of  red  and  rose  and  gold. 
Often,  too,  vague  sheep  and  deer  along  the 
farther  shore  were  slowly  developed  into  reality 
by  the  morning  light.  From  all  around  birds 
came  to  bathe  and  drink,  and  meet  in  morning 
song  service. 

Occasionally  I  remained  in  camp  almost  mo- 
tionless from  early  morning  until  the  stars  of 
evening  filled  the  lake,  enjoying  the  comings 
and  goings  and  social  gatherings  of  the  wilder- 
ness folk. 

These  lakes,  if  frozen  during  calm  times,  have 
ice  of  exceeding  clearness  and  smoothness.  In 
early  winter  this  reflects  peak,  cloud,  and  sky 
with  astonishing  faithfulness.  In  walking  across 
on  this  ice  when  the  reflective  condition  was 
at  its  best,  I  have  marveled  at  my  reflection,  or 
that  of  Scotch,  my  dog,  walking  on  what  ap- 
peared to  be  the  surface  of  the  water.  The  lakes 
above  timber-line  are  frozen  over  about  nine 
months  of  the  year,  some  of  them  even  longer. 

1 60 


Qftounfoin  BaRes 

Avalanches  of  snow  often  pile  upon  them,  bury- 
ing them  deeply. 

Gravity  and  water  are  filling  with  debris  and 
sediment  these  basins  which  the  glaciers  dug. 
Many  lakes  have  long  since  faded  from  the 
landscape.  The  earthy  surface  as  it  emerges 
above  the  water  is  in  time  overspread  with  a 
carpet  of  plushy  sedge  or  grass,  a  tangle  of  wil- 
low, a  grove  of  aspen,  or  a  forest  of  pine  or 
spruce.  The  rapidity  of  this  filling  is  dependent 
on  a  number  of  things,  —  the  situation  of  the 
lake,  the  stability  of  the  watershed,  its  relation 
to  forests,  slopes,  meadows,  and  other  lakes, 
which  may  intercept  a  part  of  the  down-coming 
sediment  or  wreckage.  This  filling  material 
may  be  deposited  evenly  over  the  bottom,  the 
lake  steadily  becoming  shallower,  though  main- 
taining its  original  size,  with  its  edge  clean  until 
the  last;  or  it  may  be  heaped  at  one  end  or  piled 
along  one  side.  In  some  lakes  the  entering 
stream  builds  a  slowly  extending  delta,  which 
in  time  gains  the  surface  and  extends  over  the 
entire  basin.  In  other  lakes  a  side  stream  may 
form  an  expanding  dry  delta  which  the  grass, 

161 


(RocBg  Qllounfom  TDonberfanb 

willows  or  aspens  eagerly  follow  outward  and 
cover  long  before  water  is  displaced  from  the 
remainder  of  the  lake's  rock-bound  shores.  With 
many,  the  lower  end  of  the  basin,  shallow  from 
the  first,  is  filled  with  sediment  and  changed  to 
meadow,  while  the  deep  upper  end  lies  almost 
unchanged  in  its  rock  basin.  Now  and  then  a 
plunging  landslide  forms  an  island,  on  which  the 
spruces  and  firs  make  haste  to  wave  triumphant 
plumes.  Lake  Agnes  on  the  northern  slope  of 
Mt.  Richthofen  was  formed  with  a  rounded 
dome  of  glaciated  rock  remaining  near  the 
centre.  This  lake  is  being  filled  by  the  slow  in- 
flow of  a  "rock  stream." 

Landslides,  large  and  small,  often  plunge  into 
these  lakes.  One  of  the  largest  rock  avalanches 
that  I  ever  saw  made  one  wild  leap  into  Chasm 
Lake  and  buried  itself.  This  was  about  the 
middle  of  June.  This  glacier  lake  is  on  the  east- 
ern side  of  Long's  Peak  and  is  in  a  most  utterly 
wild  place.  The  lake  was  still  covered  with 
thick  ice,  and  on  the  ice  the  snow  lay  deep.  But 
spring  was  melting  and  loosening  things  in  the 
alpine  heights.  As  I  stood  on  a  talus  slope  above 

162 


Qltounfain  Ba&tz 

the  outlet  of  the  lake,  an  echoing  on  the  oppo- 
site cliffs  told  me  that  a  rock-slide  was  coming 
down.  Almost  instantly  there  was  the  ripping 
whizz  of  falling  stone.  A  huge  stone  struck  and 
pierced  twenty  feet  of  snow  and  more  than  four 
feet  of  ice,  which  covered  the  lake.  At  the  same 
instant  there  came  sounds  of  riot  from  above. 
More  stones  were  coming  down.  The  crash  of 
their  striking,  repeated  and  reechoed  by  sur- 
rounding cliffs  and  steeps,  made  an  uproarious 
crashing  as  though  the  top  of  Long's  Peak  had 
collapsed.  It  was  an  avalanche  of  several  thou- 
sand tons  off  the  slope  of  Mt.  Washington. 

This  avalanche  was  formed  of  a  quantity 
of  broken  granite  sufficient  to  load  a  number 
of  freight-trains.  It  smashed  through  the  icy 
cover  of  the  lake.  The  effect  was  like  a  terrific 
explosion.  Enormous  fragments  of  ice  were 
thrown  into  the  air  and  hurled  afar.  Great 
masses  of  water  burst  explosively  upward,  as  if 
the  entire  filling  of  water  had  been  blown  out 
or  had  leaped  out  of  its  basin.  The  cliffs  oppo- 
site were  deluged.  The  confused  wind-current 
which  this  created  shredded  and  separated  much 

163 


(KocRg  (Wounfoin  TO?onberfon*> 

of  the  water  into  spray,  dashing  and  blowing  it 
about.  I  was  thoroughly  drenched.  For  half 
a  minute  this  spray  whirled  so  thickly  that  it 
was  almost  smothering. 

Water  and  ice  are  incessantly  at  work  tearing 
down  the  heights.  Water  undermines  by  wash- 
ing away  the  softer  parts  and  by  leaching. 
Every  winter  ice  thrusts  its  expansive  wedge 
into  each  opening.  Places  are  so  shattered  by 
this  explosive  action  that  thousands  of  gallons 
of  water  are  admitted.  This  collects  in  open- 
ings, and  the  following  winter  the  freezing  and 
forcing  continues.  During  the  winter  the  ir- 
resistible expansion  of  freezing  water  thus 
pushes  the  rocks  and  widens  the  openings  with 
a  force  that  is  slow  but  powerful.  Winter  by 
winter  rocks  are  moved ;  summer  by  summer  the 
water  helps  enlarge  the  opening.  Years  or  cen- 
turies go  by,  and  at  last  during  a  rainy  time  or 
in  the  spring  thaw  a  mass  slips  away  or  falls 
over.  This  may  amount  to  only  a  few  pounds,  or 
it  may  be  a  cliff  or  even  a  mountain-side. 

The  long  ice-ages  of  the  earth  appear  to  have 
their  sway,  go,  and  return.  These  alternate  with 

164 


Qttounfain  Bc&tB 


long  climatic  periods  made  up  of  the  short 
winters  and  the  other  changing  seasons  such  as 
we  know.  The  glacier  lake  is  slowly  created,  but 
an  avalanche  may  blot  it  out  the  day  after  it  is 
completed.  Other  lakes  more  favorably  situ- 
ated may  live  on  for  thousands  of  years.  But 
every  one  must  eventually  pass  away.  These 
lakes  come  into  existence,  have  a  period  of 
youth,  maturity,  and  declining  years;  then  they 
are  gone  forever.  They  are  covered  over  with 
verdure —  covered  with  beauty  —  and  forgotten. 


Qfc  QUounfain  (pong 


(&  QUounfain  $ony 

OUR  stage  in  the  San  Juan  Mountains  had 
just  gained  the  top  of  the  grade  when  an 
alert,  riderless  pony  trotted  into  view  on  a 
near-by  ridge.  Saddled  and  bridled,  she  was 
returning  home  down  a  zigzag  trail  after  carry- 
ing a  rider  to  a  mine  up  the  mountain-side.  One 
look  at  this  trim,  spirited  "return  horse"  from 
across  a  narrow  gorge,  and  she  disappeared  be- 
hind a  cliff. 

A  moment  later  she  rounded  a  point  of  rocks 
and  came  down  into  the  road  on  a  gallop.  The 
stage  met  her  in  a  narrow  place.  Indifferent  to 
the  wild  gorge  below,  she  paused  unflinchingly 
on  the  rim  as  the  brushing  stage  dashed  by. 
She  was  a  beautiful  bay  pony. 

"That  is  Cricket,  the  wisest  return  horse  in 
these  hills,"  declared  the  stage-driver,  who  pro- 
ceeded to  tell  of  her  triumphant  adventures  as 
he  drove  on  into  Silverton.  When  I  went  to 
hire  Cricket,  her  owner  said  that  I  might  use 

169 


(Roc%  (mounfam  Tt?on*>ettf<mt> 

her  as  long  as  I  desired,  and  proudly  declared 
that  if  she  was  turned  loose  anywhere  within 
thirty  miles  she  would  promptly  come  home  or 
die.  A  trip  into  the  mountains  beyond  Tellu- 
ride  was  my  plan. 

A  "return  horse"  is  one  that  will  go  home  at 
once  when  set  free  by  the  rider,  even  though 
the  way  be  through  miles  of  trailless  moun- 
tains. He  is  a  natural  result  of  the  topography 
of  the  San  Juan  Mountains  and  the  geographic 
conditions  therein.  Many  of  the  mines  in  this 
region  are  situated  a  thousand  feet  or  so  up 
the  precipitous  slopes  above  the  valleys.  The 
railroads,  the  towns,  society,  are  down  in 
the  canons,  —  so  near  and  yet  so  far,  —  and  the 
only  outlet  to  the  big  world  is  through  the 
canon.  Miners  are  willing  to  walk  down  from 
the  boarding-house  at  the  mine;  but  not  many 
will  make  the  vigorous  effort,  nor  give  the  three 
to  four  hours  required,  to  climb  back  up  the 
mountain.  Perhaps  some  one  wants  to  go  to  a 
camp  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  mountain.  As 
there  is  no  tunnel  through,  he  rides  a  return 
horse  to  the  summit,  turns  the  horse  loose,  then 

170 


(2jt  (Wlounfam  (pong 

walks  down  the  opposite  side.  The  return  horse, 
by  coming  back  undirected,  meets  a  peculiar 
transportation  condition  in  a  satisfactory  man- 
ner. 

The  liverymen  of  Silverton,  Ouray,  and  Tel- 
luride  keep  the  San  Juan  section  supplied  with 
these  trained  ponies.  With  kind  treatment  and 
experience  the  horses  learn  to  meet  emergencies 
without  hesitation.  Storm,  fallen  trees,  a  land- 
slide, or  drifted  snow  may  block  the  way  — 
they  will  find  a  new  one  and  come  home. 

The  local  unwritten  law  is  that  these  horses 
are  let  out  at  the  owner's  risk.  If  killed  or 
stolen,  as  sometimes  happens,  the  owner  is  the 
loser.  However,  there  is  another  unwritten  law 
which  places  the  catching  or  riding  of  these 
horses  in  the  category  of  horse-stealing,  —  a 
serious  matter  in  the  West. 

I  rode  Cricket  from  Silverton  to  Ouray,  and 
on  the  way  we  became  intimately  acquainted. 
I  talked  to  her,  asked  questions,  scratched  the 
back  of  her  head,  examined  her  feet,  and  oc- 
casionally found  something  for  her  to  eat.  I 
walked  up  the  steeper  stretches,   and   before 

171 


evening  she  followed  me  like  a  dog,  even  when 
I  traveled  out  of  the  trail. 

For  the  night  she  was  placed  in  a  livery-barn 
in  Ouray.  Before  going  to  bed  I  went  out  and 
patted  and  talked  to  her  for  several  minutes. 
She  turned  to  watch  me  go,  and  gave  a  pleasant 
little  whinny  as  the  barn-door  closed. 

Telluride  and  Ouray  are  separated  by  a  moun- 
tain that  rises  four  thousand  feet  above  their 
altitude.  By  trail  they  are  twelve  miles  apart; 
by  railroad,  forty  miles.  Many  people  go  by 
trail  from  one  to  the  other,  usually  riding  to  the 
summit,  one  half  the  distance,  where  the  horse 
is  set  free,  and  walking  the  rest  of  the  way. 

When  Cricket  and  I  set  out  from  Ouray,  we 
followed  the  road  to  the  Camp  Bird  Mine.  We 
met  horses  returning  with  empty  saddles,  each 
having  that  morning  carried  a  rider  from  Ouray 
to  the  mine.  Three  of  these  horses  were  abreast, 
trotting  merrily,  sociably  along,  now  and  then 
giving  a  pleasant  nip  at  one  another. 

We  stopped  at  the  Camp  Bird  Mine,  and 
while  in  the  office  I  overheard  a  telephone 
inquiry  concerning  a  return  horse,  Hesperus, 

172 


Qt  (THounfain  (pong 

who  had  been  sent  with  a  rider  to  the  summit 
and  was  more  than  an  hour  overdue.  Half  a 
mile  above  the  mine  we  met  Hesperus  coming 
deliberately  down.  He  was  not  loafing,  but  was 
hampered  by  a  loose  shoe.  When  he  reached  the 
Camp  Bird  barn  he  stopped,  evidently  to  have 
the  shoe  removed.  As  soon  as  this  was  done,  he 
set  off  on  a  swinging  trot  down  the  trail. 

As  Cricket  and  I  went  forward,  I  occasionally 
gave  her  attention,  such  as  taking  off  her  sad- 
dle and  rubbing  her  back.  These  attentions  she 
enjoyed.  I  walked  up  the  steep  places,  an  act 
that  was  plainly  to  her  satisfaction.  Sometimes 
I  talked  to  her  as  if  she  were  a  child,  always 
speaking  in  a  quiet,  conversational  manner,  and 
in  a  merry  make-believe  way,  pretending  that 
she  understood  me.  And  doubtless  she  did,  for 
tone  is  a  universal  language. 

At  the  summit  Cricket  met  some  old  friends. 
One  pony  had  been  ridden  by  a  careless  man 
who  had  neglected  to  fasten  the  bridle-reins 
around  the  saddle-horn,  —  as  every  rider  is 
expected  to  do  when  he  starts  the  pony  home- 
ward.   This  failure  resulted  in  the  pony's  en- 

173 


tangling  a  foot  in  the  bridle-rein.  When  I  tried 
to  relieve  him  there  was  some  lively  dodging  be- 
fore he  would  stand  still  enough  for  me  to  right 
matters.  Another  pony  was  eating  grass  by 
walking  in  the  bottom  of  a  narrow  gully  and 
feeding  off  the  banks.  Commonly  these  horses 
are  back  on  time.  If  they  fail  to  return,  or  are 
late,  there  is  usually  a  good  reason  for  it. 

The  trail  crossed  the  pass  at  an  altitude  of 
thirteen  thousand  feet.  From  this  point  mag- 
nificent scenes  spread  away  on  every  hand.  Here 
we  lingered  to  enjoy  the  view  and  to  watch  the 
antics  of  the  return  ponies.  Two  of  them,  just 
released,  were  rolling  vigorously,  despite  their 
saddles.  This  rolling  enabled  me  to  understand 
the  importance  of  every  liveryman's  caution 
to  strangers,  "Be  sure  to  tighten  the  saddle- 
cinches  before  you  let  the  pony  go."  A  loose 
cinch  has  more  than  once  caught  the  shoe  of  a 
rolling  horse  and  resulted  in  the  death  of  the 
animal.  A  number  of  riderless  ponies  who  were 
returning  to  Telluride  accompanied  Cricket 
and  me  down  the  winding,  scene-commanding 
road  into  this  picturesque  mining  town. 

174 


Qjt  QHoun&un  (pong 

I  spent  a  few  days  about  Telluride  riding 
Cricket  up  to  a  number  of  mines,  taking  photo- 
graphs on  the  way.  Whenever  we  arrived  at 
an  exceptionally  steep  pitch,  either  in  ascend- 
ing or  in  descending,  Cricket  invited  me  to  get 
off  and  walk.  Unbidden  she  would  stop.  After 
standing  for  a  few  seconds,  if  I  made  no  move 
to  get  off,  she  turned  for  a  look  at  me;  then  if 
I  failed  to  understand,  she  laid  back  her  ears 
and  pretended  to  bite  at  my  feet. 

One  day  we  paused  on  a  point  to  look  down 
at  a  steep  trail  far  below.  A  man  was  climbing 
up.  A  riderless  pony  was  trotting  down.  Just 
as  they  met,  the  man  made  a  dash  to  catch  the 
pony.  It  swerved  and  struck  with  both  fore 
feet.  He  dodged  and  made  another  bold,  swift 
grab  for  the  bridle-rein,  but  narrowly  missed. 
He  staggered,  and,  before  he  could  recover,  the 
pony  wheeled  and  kicked  him  headlong.  With- 
out looking  back,  the  pony  trotted  on  down  the 
trail  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  For  a 
moment  the  man  lay  stunned,  then,  slowly 
rising,  he  went  limping  up  the  slope. 

A  well-meaning  tenderfoot,  that  afternoon  in 

175 


(Roc(ty  QHounfoin  TUonberfonb 

Telluride,  saw  a  riderless  pony  and  concluded 
that  he  had  broken  loose.  After  lively  work  he 
cornered  the  pony  in  an  alley  and  caught  it. 
The  owner  appeared  just  as  the  stranger  was 
tying  the  pony  to  a  hitching-post.  A  crowd 
gathered  as  the  owner,  laughing  heartily, 
dragged  the  stranger  into  a  saloon.  I  leaped 
off  Cricket  and  went  into  the  saloon  after  them. 
To  the  astonishment  of  every  one  Cricket  also 
walked  in. 

We  left  Telluride  one  sunny  October  morn- 
ing with  a  sleeping-bag  and  a  few  supplies.  I 
had  made  plans  to  have  a  few  days  for  the  study 
of  forest  conditions  around  Lizard  Head  and 
Mt.  Wilson.  In  the  neighborhood  of  Ophir 
Loop,  the  first  night  out,  the  moonlight  on  the 
mountains  was  so  enchanting  that  I  rode  on 
until  nearly  morning. 

Cricket  and  I  were  chummy.  The  following 
afternoon,  while  waiting  for  sunset  over  Trout 
Lake,  I  lay  down  for  a  sleep  on  the  grass  in  a 
sun-filled  opening  surrounded  by  clumps  of  tall 
spruces.  Trusting  Cricket  to  stay  near,  I  threw 
her  bridle-rein  over  her  head  to  the  ground  and 

176 


Qt  Qlloun^ain  (pong 

thus  set  her  free.  In  the  sunny,  dry  air  I  quickly 
fell  asleep.  An  hour  later,  a  snorting  explosion 
on  the  top  of  my  head  awakened  me.  Though  I 
was  somewhat  startled,  the  situation  was  any- 
thing but  alarming.  Cricket  was  lying  beside 
me.  Apparently,  while  dozing,  she  had  dropped 
her  head  against  mine,  and  had  snorted  while 
her  nostrils  were  against  my  ear. 

We  wandered  far  from  the  trail,  and,  after 
a  few  perfect  days  in  the  mountain  heights,  big 
clouds  came  in  and  snow  fell  thickly  all  night 
long.  By  morning  it  was  nearly  two  feet  deep, 
and  before  noon  several  snow-slides  were  heard. 
Being  a  good  rustler,  Cricket  had  all  the  morn- 
ing been  pawing  into  the  snow,  where  she  ob- 
tained a  few  mouthfuls  of  snowy  grass.  But 
she  must  be  taken  where  she  could  get  enough 
to  eat. 

After  thirty-six  hours  of  storm  we  started 
down  a  canon  out  of  the  snowy  wilderness  under 
a  blue  sky.  No  air  stirred.  The  bright  sun  cast 
purple  shadows  of  the  pines  and  spruces  upon 
the  clean  white  snow.  After  a  few  hours  we 
came  to  a  blockade.   The  canon  was  filled  with 

177 


(Roc8p  (piounfoin  ttton&erfanb 

an  enormous  mass  of  snow.  A  snow-slide  had 
run  in  from  a  side  gulch.  We  managed  to  get 
into  the  upper  edge  of  this  snow,  where  it  was 
thin  and  not  compressed. 

Cricket  fought  her  way  through  in  the  most 
matter-of-fact  manner,  notwithstanding  her 
head  and  neck  were  all  that  showed  above  the 
snow.  As  these  return  horses  are  often  caught 
out  in  deep  drifts,  it  is  important  that  they  be 
good  "snow  horses."  She  slowly  forced  her  way 
forward,  sometimes  pawing  to  make  an  opening 
and  again  rearing  and  striking  forward  with 
both  fore  feet.  From  time  to  time  she  paused  to 
breathe,  occasionally  eating  a  mouthful  of  snow 
while  she  rested.  All  the  time  I  talked  encour- 
agingly to  her,  saying,  "Of  course  you  can 
make  it!"    "Once  more!" 

When  more  than  halfway  through  the  snow- 
slide  mass,  one  of  the  saddle-cinches  caught  on 
the  snag  of  a  fallen  log  and  held  her  fast.  Her 
violent  efforts  were  in  vain.  Wallowing  my  way 
along  the  rocks  several  yards  above,  I  de- 
scended to  her  side,  cut  both  saddle-cinches, 
threw  the  saddle  and  the  sleeping-bag  off  her 

178 


Qfc  (Tftounfain  (pong 

back,  and  removed  the  bridle.  Cricket  was 
thus  left  a  naked  horse  in  the  snow. 

When  after  two  hours  she  had  made  her  way 
out,  I  went  for  the  saddle  and  sleeping-bag. 
As  it  was  impossible  to  carry  them,  I  attached 
the  bridle  to  them  and  wallowed  my  way  for- 
ward, dragging  them  after  me.  Meantime 
Cricket  was  impatiently  waiting  for  me  and 
occasionally  gave  an  encouraging  hurry-up 
neigh. 

When  I  had  almost  reached  her,  a  mass  of 
snow,  a  tiny  slide  from  a  shelving  rock,  plunged 
down,  sweeping  the  saddle  and  the  bag  down 
into  the  canon  and  nearly  smothering  me.  As 
it  was  almost  night,  I  made  no  attempt  to  re- 
cover them.  Without  saddle  or  bridle,  I  mounted 
Cricket  and  went  on  until  dark.  We  spent  the 
night  at  the  foot  of  an  overhanging  cliff,  where 
we  were  safe  from  slides.  Here  we  managed  to 
keep  warm  by  a  camp-fire.  Cricket  browsed 
aspen  twigs  for  supper.  I  had  nothing.  A  num- 
ber of  slides  were  heard  during  the  night,  but 
none  were  near  us. 

At  daylight  we  again  pushed  forward.  The 
179 


snow  became  thinner  as  we  advanced.  Near 
Ophir  Loop,  we  passed  over  the  pathway  of  a 
slide  where  the  ground  had  been  swept  bare. 
Having  long  been  vigilant  with  eyes  and  ears 
for  slides,  while  on  this  slide-swept  stretch,  I 
ceased  to  be  alert.  Fortunately  Cricket's  vigi- 
lance did  not  cease.  Suddenly  she  wheeled,  and, 
with  a  quickness  that  almost  took  her  from  be- 
neath me,  she  made  a  frantic  retreat,  as  a  slide 
with  thunderous  roar  shot  down  into  the  canon. 
So  narrowly  did  it  miss  us  that  we  were  heavily 
splashed  with  snow  -  fragments  and  almost 
smothered  by  the  thick,  prolonged  whirl  of  snow- 
dust.  Cricket's  vigilance  had  saved  my  life. 

The  masses  of  snow,  stones,  and  broken  tim- 
ber brought  down  by  this  slide  blockaded  the 
canon  from  wall  to  wall.  These  walls  were  too 
steep  to  be  climbed,  and,  after  trying  until  dark 
to  make  a  way  through  the  wreckage,  we  had  to 
give  it  up. 

We  spent  a  cold  night  alongside  a  cliff. 
Cricket  and  I  each  ate  a  few  willow  twigs.  The 
night  was  of  refined  clearness,  and  from  time  to 
time  I  moved  away  from  the  pungent  camp- 

180 


Qt  Qftounfain  (pong 

fire  smoke  to  look  at  the  myriads  of  stars  that 
pierced  with  icy  points  the  purple  sky. 

The  clear  morning  brought  no  solution  of  my 
problem  of  getting  Cricket  through.  I  could  not 
abandon  her.  While  she  was  trying  to  find 
something  to  eat,  I  made  my  way  up  a  side 
gulch,  endeavoring  to  find  a  way  for  her  to  the 
summit.  From  the  top  we  could  get  down  be- 
yond the  slide  blockade.  After  a  time  a  way  was 
found  that  was  impossible  for  her  at  only  one 
point.  This  point  was  a  narrow  gulch  in  the 
summit.  I  climbed  along  a  narrow  ledge,  swept 
bare  by  the  slide,  then  turned  into  a  rocky 
gulch  which  came  in  from  the  side.  I  was  within 
fifteen  feet  of  success.  But  this  was  the  width  of 
a  rocky  gulch.  Beyond  this  it  would  be  compara- 
tively easy  to  descend  on  the  other  side  of  the 
slide  wreckage  and  land  in  the  road  to  Telluride. 

But  how  was  Cricket  to  get  to  the  other  side 
of  this  gorge?  Along  the  right  I  made  my  way 
through  great  piles  of  fallen  fire-killed  timber. 
In  places  this  wreckage  lay  several  logs  deep. 
I  thought  to  find  a  way  through  the  four  or  five 
hundred  feet  of  timber-wreckage.    Careful  ex- 

181 


(Rocity  QHounfmn  TUonberfanb 

amination  showed  that  with  much  lifting  and 
numerous  detours  there  was  a  way  through  this 
except  at  four  places,  at  which  the  logs  that 
blocked  the  way  were  so  heavy  that  they  could 
not  be  moved.  Without  tools  the  only  way  to 
attack  this  confusion  of  log-masses  was  with 
fire.  In  a  short  time  the  first  of  these  piles  was 
ablaze.  As  I  stepped  back  to  rub  my  smoke- 
filled  eyes,  a  neigh  came  echoing  to  me  from  the 
side  canon  below. 

Cricket  had  become  lonesome  and  was  try- 
ing to  follow  me.  Reared  in  the  mountains,  she 
was  accustomed  to  making  her  way  through  ex- 
tremely rugged  places,  over  rocks  and  fallen 
trees.  Going  to  the  rim  of  the  canon,  I  looked 
down  upon  her.  There  she  stood  on  a  smoothly 
glaciated  point,  a  splendid  statue  of  alertness. 
When  I  called  to  her  she  responded  with  a 
whinny  and  at  once  started  to  climb  up  toward 
me.  Coaching  her  up  the  steep  places  and 
along  narrow  ledges,  I  got  her  at  last  to  the 
burning  log  obstruction.  Here  several  minutes 
of  wrestling  with  burning  log-ends  opened  a  way 
for  her. 

182 


Qfc  QHounfain  (pong 

The  two  or  three  other  masses  were  more 
formidable  than  the  first  one.  The  logs  were  so 
large  that  a  day  or  more  of  burning  and  heavy 
lifting  would  be  required  to  break  through  them. 
More  than  two  days  and  nights  of  hard  work 
had  been  passed  without  food,  and  I  must  hold 
out  until  a  way  could  be  fought  through  these 
other  heavy  timber-heaps.  Cricket,  apparently 
not  caring  to  be  left  behind  again,  came  close  to 
me  and  eagerly  watched  my  every  move.  To 
hasten  the  fire,  armfuls  of  small  limbs  were 
gathered  for  it.  As  limbs  were  plentiful  on  the 
other  side  of  the  gorge,  I  went  across  on  a  large 
fallen  log  for  a  supply,  shuffling  the  snow  off 
with  my  feet  as  I  crossed.  To  my  astonishment 
Cricket  came  trotting  across  the  slippery  log 
after  me!  She  had  been  raised  with  fallen  tim- 
ber and  had  walked  logs  before.  As  she  cleared 
the  edge,  I  threw  my  arms  around  her  neck  and 
leaped  upon  her  back.  Without  saddle,  bridle,  or 
guiding,  she  took  me  merrily  down  the  mountain- 
side into  the  wagon-road  beyond  the  snow-slide 
blockade.   At  midnight  we  were  in  Telluride. 


£0e  <Bri33^  (gear 


£#e  (Bn^fy  (gear 

One  day  in  North  Park,  Colorado,  I  came 
on  the  carcass  of  a  cow  that  wolves  had 
recently  killed.  Knowing  that  bears  were  about, 
I  climbed  into  the  substantial  top  of  a  stocky 
pine  near  by,  hoping  that  one  would  come  to 
feast.   A  grizzly  came  at  sundown. 

The  carcass  lay  in  a  grassy  opening  sur- 
rounded by  willow-clumps,  grassy  spaces,  and  a 
sprinkling  of  low-growing,  round-topped  pines. 
When  about  one  hundred  feet  from  the  carcass, 
the  bear  stopped.  Standing  erect,  with  his  fore 
paws  hanging  loosely,  he  looked,  listened,  and 
carefully  examined  the  air  with  his  nose.  As  the 
air  was  not  stirring,  I  felt  that  he  had  not,  and 
probably  would  not,  scent  me  in  the  treetop 
perch. 

After  scouting  for  a  minute  or  two  with  all 
his  keen  senses,  he  dropped  on  all  fours  and 
slowly,  without  a  sound,  advanced  toward  the 
carcass.   He  circled  as  he  advanced;  and,  when 

187 


(Rocfy>  (piounfain  Tftontorfanb 

within  thirty  feet  of  the  waiting  feast,  he  re- 
doubled his  precautions  against  surprise  and 
ambush.  My  scent  by  the  carcass  probably  had 
nothing  to  do  with  these  precautions.  A  grizzly 
is  ever  on  guard  and  in  places  of  possible  ambush 
is  extremely  cautious.  He  is  not  a  coward ;  but 
he  does  not  propose  to  blunder  into  trouble. 

Slipping  cautiously  to  the  edge  of  a  thick  wil- 
low-clump, he  suddenly  flung  himself  into  it  with 
a  fearful  roar,  then  instantly  leaped  out  on  the 
other  side.  Evidently  he  planned  to  start  some- 
thing if  there  was  anything  to  start. 

Standing  fully  erect,  tense  at  every  point,  he 
waited  a  moment  in  ferocious  attitude,  ready 
to  charge  anything  that  might  plunge  from  the 
willows;  but  nothing  started.  After  a  brief 
pause  he  charged,  roaring,  through  another 
willow-clump.  It  was  a  satisfaction  to  know 
that  the  tree-limb  on  which  I  sat  was  substan- 
tial. That  a  grizzly  bear  cannot  climb  a  tree  is 
a  fact  in  natural  history  which  gave  me  im- 
mense satisfaction.  Every  willow-clump  near 
the  carcass  was  charged,  with  a  roar. 

Not  finding  an  enemy,  he  at  last  went  to  the 
188 


£0e  <Bri33fy  Q^ar 

carcass.  After  feasting  for  a  few  minutes  he 
rose  and  snarled.  Then,  sniffing  along  my  trail 
a  few  yards,  he  stopped  to  mutter  a  few  growl- 
ing threats  and  returned  to  the  feast. 

After  eating  contentedly  and  to  his  satisfac- 
tion, he  moved  round  the  carcass,  raking  and 
scraping  grass  and  trash  on  it.  Then,  pausing  for 
a  minute  or  two  in  apparently  peaceful  contem- 
plation, he  doubled  back  on  the  trail  over  which 
he  had  come  and  faded  into  the  twilight. 

Alertness  and  brain-power  are  characteristics 
of  the  grizzly  bear.  He  is  eternally  vigilant. 
He  has  the  genius  for  taking  pains.  He  is  watch- 
ful even  in  seclusion;  and  when  he  is  traveling 
his  amazingly  developed  senses  appear  never 
to  rest,  but  are  constantly  on  scout  and  sentinel 
duty, — except  on  rare  occasions  when  he  is 
temporarily  hypnotized  by  curiosity.  I  believe 
his  intelligence  to  be  greater  than  that  of  the 
dog,  the  horse,  or  the  elephant.  Apparently  he 
assumes  that  some  one  is  ever  stealthily  in  pur- 
suit. 

In  repeatedly  following  the  grizzly  with  pho- 
tographic intentions  I  was  almost  invariably 

189 


(RocSg  (mountain  TCDon&ttfcmb 

outwitted.  On  one  occasion  I  followed  one  al- 
most constantly  for  eight  days  and  nights;  and 
though  many  times  I  almost  had  him,  yet  I 
never  succeeded.  Now  and  then  he  climbed  a 
rocky  crag  to  look  about;  or  he  doubled  back 
a  short  distance  on  his  trail  to  some  point  of 
vantage,  where  he  rose  on  his  hind  legs,  sniffed 
the  air,  looked  and  listened.  At  other  times  he 
turned  at  right  angles  to  his  general  course, 
went  a  short  distance  to  a  point  favorable  for 
seeing,  hearing,  or  smelling  his  possible  pursuer, 
and  there  remained  for  a  few  minutes.  If  all 
seemed  well,  he  commonly  returned  to  his  trail 
and  again  went  forward. 

Usually  he  traveled  in  the  face  of  the  wind; 
commonly  he  promptly  changed  his  course  if 
the  wind  changed.  In  crossing  a  grassy  open- 
ing in  the  woods  he  sometimes  went  boldly 
across;  but  on  the  farther  side,  concealed  by 
the  trees,  he  waited  to  see  whether  a  pursuer 
appeared  across  the  opening.  Sometimes  he 
went  round  an  opening  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left.  Apparently  there  lay  a  plan  behind  his 
every  move. 

190 


The  third  day  he  was  well  started  diagonally 
down  the  wall  of  a  canon.  I  naturally  concluded 
that  he  would  on  this  course  descend  to  the  bot- 
tom and  there  continue  down-stream.  Instead 
of  doing  this,  he  stopped  at  a  point  about  mid- 
way down  for  a  long  stay.  Then  from  this  place 
he  pointed  his  nose  up-stream  and  descended 
diagonally  to  the  bottom  of  the  canon.  At  the 
bottom  he  again  made  an  acute  angle  to  ascend 
to  the  top  of  the  opposite  wall. 

The  last  three  days  of  this  pursuit  he  knew 
that  I  was  following  him,  but  there  seemed  to 
be  no  change  in  his  tactics.  He  simply  moved 
a  little  more  rapidly.  Though  well  acquainted 
with  grizzly  habits,  I  was  unable  to  anticipate 
his  next  important  move,  and  he  defeated  every 
plan  I  put  into  operation. 

For  several  years  an  outlaw  or  cattle-killing 
grizzly  terrorized  an  extensive  cattle-grazing 
section  in  the  mountains  of  Utah.  For  months 
at  a  stretch  he  killed  a  cow  or  steer  at  least  every 
other  day.  He  would  make  a  kill  one  day  and 
on  the  next  would  appear  across  the  mountains, 
forty  or  more  miles  away. 

191 


(RocRg  (ttlounfain  TZ?on*erfctnb 

Organized  expeditions,  made  up  of  from 
thirty  to  fifty  men,  with  packs  of  dogs,  pursued 
him  day  and  night  for  a  week  or  longer;  but 
each  time  he  escaped.  Large  rewards  were 
offered  for  his  capture.  Old  trappers  and  hunt- 
ers came  from  afar,  but  after  weeks  of  trial  gave 
up  the  pursuit. 

The  grizzly  has  a  well-developed  bump  of 
curiosity.  This  sometimes  betrays  him  into 
forgetfulness.  On  a  few  occasions  I  have  come 
on  one  —  and  twice  one  unwittingly  came 
close  to  me  —  while  he  was  intent  on  solving 
something  that  had  awakened  that  curiosity. 

Once,  while  watching  a  forest  fire,  I  climbed 
a  mountain  to  a  point  above  the  tree-line  in 
order  to  reach  a  safe  and  commanding  spot 
from  which  to  view  the  flames  on  a  near-by 
slope.  At  the  summit  I  came  upon  a  grizzly 
within  a  few  yards  of  me.  He  was  squatting  on 
his  haunches  like  a  dog,  and  was  intently  watch- 
ing the  fire-fount  below.  A  deep  roar  at  one 
place,  high-leaping  flames  at  another,  a  vast 
smoke-cloud  at  another,  —  each  in  turn  caught 
his  attention.    None  of  his  keen  senses  warned 

192 


him  of  my  presence,  though  I  stood  near  him 
for  two  or  three  minutes.  When  I  yelled  at  him 
he  slowly  turned  his  head  and  stared  at  me  in 
a  half-dazed  manner.  Then  he  angrily  showed 
his  teeth  for  a  second  or  two,  and  finally  —  much 
to  my  relief  —  fled  like  a  frightened  rabbit. 

On  another  occasion  I  saw  a  grizzly  on  the 
opposite  side  of  a  narrow  canon,  with  his  fore 
paws  on  a  boulder,  watching  with  the  greatest 
interest  the  actions  of  a  fisherman  on  the  bank 
of  the  stream  below.  Every  cast  of  the  fly  was 
followed  by  the  head  of  the  bear.  The  pulling- 
up  of  a  trout  caused  him  almost  excited  interest. 
For  some  minutes  he  concentrated  all  his  facul- 
ties on  the  fisherman;  but  suddenly,  with  no 
apparent  reason  that  I  could  discern,  he  came 
to  his  senses  and  broke  away  in  a  most 
frightened  manner,  apparently  condemning 
himself  for  briefly  relapsing  into  dullness. 

Two  pet  grizzlies  that  I  raised  always  showed 
marked  curiosity.  An  unusual  sound  near  by 
or  a  glimpse  of  some  distant  object  brought  them 
to  tiptoe  height,  roused  their  complete  attention, 
and  held  it  until  the  mystery  was  solved. 

193 


The  grizzly  is  not  ferocious.  On  the  contrary, 
he  uses  his  wits  to  keep  far  away  from  man.  He 
will  not  make  a  wanton  attack.  He  will  fight 
in  self-defense;  or  if  surprised,  and  thinking 
himself  cornered,  he  at  once  becomes  the  aggres- 
sor. If  a  mother  grizzly  feels  that  her  cubs  are 
in  danger,  she  will  face  any  danger  for  their  de- 
fense; but  the  grizzly  does  not  fight  unless  he 
thinks  a  fight  cannot  be  avoided. 

He  is  a  masterful  fighter.  He  has  strength, 
endurance,  powerful  jaws,  deadly  claws,  cour- 
age, and  brains.  Before  the  white  man  and  the 
repeating  rifle  came,  he  boldly  wandered  over 
his  domain  as  absolute  master;  there  was  noth- 
ing to  fear,  —  not  a  single  aggressive  foe  existed. 
I  doubt  whether  toward  man  the  grizzly  was 
ever  ferociously  aggressive. 

That  he  has  changed  on  account  of  contact 
with  the  white  man  and  the  repeating  rifle  there 
can  be  no  doubt.  Formerly  the  rightful  mon- 
arch of  the  wilds  through  capability,  he  roamed 
freely  about,  indifferent  as  to  where  he  went 
or  whether  he  was  seen.  He  feared  no  foe  and 
knew  no  master.   The  bow  and  arrow,  and  the 

194 


£0e  d5n'33%  ^eat 

spear,  he  held  in  contempt;  for  the  powerful  re- 
peating rifle  he  has  a  profound  respect.  He  has 
been  wise  to  adjust  himself  to  this  influential 
factor  of  environment  or  evolutionary  force.  He 
has  thus  become  less  inquisitive  and  aggressive, 
and  more  retiring  and  wary.  He  has  learned  to 
keep  out  of  sight  and  out  of  man's  way. 

A  grizzly  acts  so  promptly  in  emergencies 
that  he  has  often  been  misunderstood.  He  fights 
because  he  thinks  he  has  to,  not  because  he 
wants  to. 

On  one  occasion  in  Wyoming  I  was  running 
down  a  mountain-side,  leaping  fallen  fire-killed 
timber.  In  the  midst  of  this  I  surprised  a  grizzly 
by  landing  within  a  few  feet  of  him.  He  leaped 
to  his  feet  and  struck  at  me  with  sufficient  force 
to  have  almost  cut  me  in  two  had  the  blow 
landed.  Then  he  instantly  fled. 

On  other  occasions  I  have  seen  grizzlies  sur- 
prised, when,  though  not  cornered,  they  thought 
they  were  and  instantly  commenced  a  fierce  and 
effective  fight.  Dogs,  horses,  and  men  were 
charged  in  rapid  succession  and  either  knocked 
down  or  put  to  flight ;  yet  in  these  fights  he  was 

195 


not  the  aggressor.    He  does  not  belong  to  the 
criminal  class. 

Almost  every  one  is  interested  in  bears; 
children,  the  tenderfeet,  and  Westerners  are 
always  glad  to  have  a  good  bear  story.  Count- 
less thousands  of  bear  stories  have  been  writ- 
ten, —  and  generally  written  by  people  unac- 
quainted with  the  character  of  grizzly  bears. 
Most  of  these  stories  are  founded  on  one  or  an- 
other of  three  fundamental  errors.  One  of  these 
is  that  the  grizzly  has  a  bad  temper,  —  "as 
cross  as  a  bear"  is  an  exceedingly  common 
expression ;  another  is  that  bears  are  ferocious, 
watchful,  and  aggressive,  always  ready  to  make 
an  attack  or  to  do  wanton  killing ;  and  the  third 
is  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  kill  him.  After 
a  desperate  fight  —  in  the  story  —  the  grizzly 
at  last  succumbs,  but  not,  as  a  rule,  until  his 
body  is  numerously  perforated  or  changed  into 
a  lead  mine.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  shot  in  the 
brain,  in  the  upper  part  of  the  heart,  or  prop- 
erly placed  in  the  spine  instantly  ends  the  life 
of  a  grizzly.  Most  hunters  when  facing  a  grizzly 
do  not  shoot  accurately. 

196 


£0e  <Brt33fy  (§tav 

One  day  I  saw  three  men  fire  from  twelve  to 
sixteen  shots  at  a  small  grizzly  bear  on  a  moun- 
tain-side only  a  short  distance  away.  That 
evening  these  men  sincerely  asserted  that  he 
must  have  weighed  at  least  a  ton  —  when  he 
probably  did  not  weigh  more  than  five  hundred 
pounds  —  and  that  though  they  shot  him  full 
of  lead,  he  refused  to  die.  I  doubt  whether  a 
single  one  of  their  shots  hit  the  grizzly.  Most 
of  the  shots  went  wild,  and  some  of  them  hit  a 
rocky  cliff  about  two  hundred  yards  distant 
and  fifty  or  sixty  feet  higher  than  the  bear.  At 
another  time  I  saw  a  hunter  kill  four  huge  griz- 
zly bears  with  just  four  successive  shots.  Of 
course  he  knew  the  vital  point  at  which  to  aim, 
was  a  good  shot,  and  had  perfect  self-control 
during  the  few  seconds  of  shooting. 

As  a  rule,  the  grizzly  does  not  kill  cattle  or 
big  game.  There  were  buffalo-killing  grizzlies, 
and  an  occasional  one  now  kills  cattle.  These 
killers  commonly  slay  right  and  left,  often  kill- 
ing a  dozen  head  in  a  short  time,  but  they  do 
not  often  kill  big  game.  I  have  a  number  of 
times  seen  elk,  deer,  and  mountain  sheep  feed- 

197 


(Roc%  (mountain  TJ?onberfanb 

ing  near  a  grizzly  without  showing  the  slightest 
concern. 

The  grizzly  is  an  omnivorous  feeder.  He  will 
eat  anything  that  is  edible,  —  fresh  meat  or 
carrion,  bark,  grass,  grasshoppers,  ants,  fruit, 
grubs,  and  leaves.  He  is  fond  of  honey  and  with 
it  will  consume  rotten  wood,  trash,  and  bees,  — 
stings  and  all.  He  is  a  destroyer  of  many  pests 
that  afflict  man,  and  in  the  realm  of  economic 
biology  should  be  rated  high  for  work  in  this 
connection.  I  doubt  whether  any  dozen  cats, 
hawks,  or  owls  annually  catch  as  many  mice  as 
he.  But  in  some  localities  the  grizzly  is  almost 
a  vegetarian.  In  western  Montana  and  in  the 
southern  Selkirks  of  Canada  he  lives  almost 
exclusively  on  plants  and  plant-roots,  together 
with  berries  and  bark. 

All  grizzlies  are  fond  of  fish  and  in  some  sec- 
tions they  become  successful  fishermen.  Some- 
times they  capture  fish  by  wading  along  a  brook, 
and  catching,  with  claws  or  teeth,  the  fish  that 
conceal  themselves  beneath  banks  or  roots. 
Commonly  the  bear  makes  a  stand  in  driftwood 
on  a  bank,  or  on  a  log  that  has  fallen  into  or 

198 


across  a  stream.  From  this  stand  he  knocks  fish 
entirely  out  of  the  water  with  a  lightning-like 
stroke  of  his  paw.  The  bears  that  range  along 
the  water-sheds  of  the  Columbia  and  its  tribu- 
taries feed  largely  on  fish,  mostly  salmon. 

I  saw  a  grizzly  make  a  stand  in  the  ripple 
of  an  Idaho  stream,  where  he  was  partly  con- 
cealed by  a  willow-clump.  In  about  half  an 
hour  he  knocked  five  large  salmon  out  of  the 
water.  With  a  single  stroke  of  his  fore  paw  each 
fish  was  flung  on  the  shore,  fifteen  or  twenty 
feet  away.  He  made  only  one  miss.  These 
salmon  weighed  between  five  and  twenty 
pounds  each. 

One  autumn  day,  along  the  timber-line  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  wild  folk  were  feeding  on 
the  last  of  the  season's  berries.  Birds  were  pres- 
ent in  such  numbers  that  it  appeared  like  a 
cosmopolitan  bird  picnic.  There  were  flocks 
of  grouse  and  robins,  numerous  jays  and  camp- 
birds;  and  noisiest  and  liveliest  of  all  were  the 
Clarke  crows.  I  watched  the  scene  from  the  top 
of  a  tall  spruce.  This  annual  autumn  feast  is 
common  to  both  bears  and  birds.  In  this  region, 

199 


and  in  the  heights  above,  the  bears  sometimes 
fatten  themselves  before  retiring  for  their  long 
winter's  sleep. 

While  I  was  up  in  the  tree,  out  of  the  woods 
below  a  mother  grizzly  and  her  two  cubs  ambled 
into  an  opening  and  made  their  way  slowly  up 
the  slope  toward  me.  Mother  Grizzly  stopped 
near  my  tree  to  dig  out  some  mice.  Just  after 
this  operation  she  evidently  caught  a  faint 
scent  of  me  and  instantly  stood  on  tiptoe,  all 
concentration.  Motionless  as  a  statue,  she 
looked,  listened,  and  gathered  information 
with  her  nostrils;  but  just  one  whiff  of  danger 
was  all  that  came  to  her  through  the  calm  air. 

Presently  she  relaxed  and  stood  for  a  moment 
on  all  fours  before  moving  on.  One  of  the  cubs 
concluded  to  suckle.  Either  this  violated  an 
ancient  grizzly  custom  or  else  it  was  something 
that  in  the  face  of  danger  was  too  thoughtless 
to  be  excused ;  at  all  events  the  mother  knocked 
the  cub  headlong  with  a  side  swing  of  her  left 
fore  paw.  He  landed  heavily  some  yards  away 
and  tumbled  heels  over  head.  The  instant  he 
rolled  on  his  feet  he  sniffed  the  earth  eagerly, 

200 


t$t  &tk$i  (gear 

as  though  a  remarkable  discovery  had  been 
made;  and  immediately  he  started  to  dig  rapidly 
with  his  fore  paws,  as  if  some  good  thing  were 
buried  just  beneath.  He  may  have  been  only 
pretending,  however.  Without  uncovering  a 
thing,  he  presently  raced  forward  to  overtake 
Mother  Grizzly. 

The  hibernating  habits  of  the  grizzly  are  not 
completely  understood.  The  custom  probably 
originated,  as  did  the  hibernation  of  other  ani- 
mals, from  the  scarcity  of  food.  In  a  long  ac- 
quaintance with  the  grizzly  my  study  of  his 
hibernation  has  brought  scanty  returns,  though 
all  that  I  have  actually  seen  has  been  of  the 
greatest  interest. 

The  grizzly  hibernates  each  winter, —  "dens 
up"  from  three  to  four  months.  The  length  of 
time  is  determined  apparently  by  latitude  and 
altitude,  by  the  snow-fall,  weather  conditions, — 
whether  severe  or  mild,  —  and  the  length  of 
the  winter;  and  perhaps,  also,  by  the  peculiari- 
ties or  the  condition  of  the  individual  animal. 
Commonly  he  hibernates  in  high  altitudes,  many 
going  to  sleep  near  or  above  the  timber-line. 

201 


The  place  where  he  hibernates  preferably  is 
a  natural  cave  or  a  large  opening  beneath  rocks. 
If  completely  sheltered  in  a  cave,  he  is  com- 
monly satisfied  to  lie  on  bare  rocks,  with  noth- 
ing over  him.  In  other  places,  where  the  snow 
might  come  in  contact  with  him,  he  commonly 
crawls  beneath  a  huge  pile  of  trash,  leaves, 
sticks,  and  roots.  Snow  had  drifted  deeply  over 
each  hibernating-place  I  have  found. 

That  his  winter-sleep  is  more  or  less  restless 
is  shown  in  the  spring  by  his  hairless  hips  and 
sides,  the  hair  having  been  worn  off  during  the 
winter.  This  probably  is  due  to  frequent  turn- 
ings from  side  to  side. 

He  is  generally  fat  when  he  turns  in  for  his 
winter's  sleep;  but  usually  he  does  not  eat  any- 
thing for  a  few  days  before  going  in.  On  the  few 
occasions  on  which  I  was  able  to  keep  track  of 
a  bear  for  several  days  before  he  went  to  sleep 
he  did  not  eat  a  single  thing  during  the  four  or 
five  days  that  immediately  preceded  retiring. 
I  have  examined  a  number  of  grizzlies  that  were 
killed  while  hibernating,  and  in  every  instance 
the  stomach  and  intestines  were  entirely  empty 

202 


£0e  <Brt33%  $>ea«r 

and  clean.  These  facts  lead  me  to  think  that 
bears  do  not  eat  just  before  hibernating. 

Nor  do  they  at  once  eat  heartily  on  emerg- 
ing. The  instances  in  which  I  was  able  to  watch 
them  for  the  first  few  days  after  they  emerged 
from  winter  quarters  showed  each  time  almost 
a  fast.  Those  observed  ate  only  a  few  ounces 
of  food  during  the  four  or  five  days  immediately 
after  emerging.  Each  drank  a  little  water.  The 
first  thing  each  ate  was  a  few  willow-twigs. 
Apparently  they  do  not  eat  heartily  until  a 
number  of  days  elapse. 

On  one  occasion  I  carefully  watched  a  grizzly 
for  six  days  after  he  emerged  from  his  hibernat- 
ing-cave.  His  winter  quarters  were  at  timber- 
line  on  Battle  Mountain,  at  an  altitude  of  nearly 
twelve  thousand  feet.  The  winter  had  been  of 
average  temperature  but  scanty  snow-fall.  I 
saw  him,  by  chance,  just  as  he  was  emerging. 
It  was  the  first  day  of  March.  I  watched  him 
with  a  field-glass.  He  walked  about  aimlessly 
for  an  hour  or  more,  then  returned  to  his  sleep- 
ing-place without  eating  or  drinking  anything. 

The  following  morning  he  came  forth  and 
203 


wandered  about  until  afternoon;  then  he  broke 
his  fast  with  a  mouthful  of  willow-twigs.  Soon 
after  eating  these  he  took  a  drink  of  water. 
After  this  he  walked  leisurely  about  until 
nearly  sundown,  then  made  himself  a  nest  at 
the  foot  of  a  cliff  in  the  woods.  Here  he  remained 
until  late  the  following  afternoon,  apparently 
sleeping.  Just  before  sundown  he  walked  out 
a  short  distance,  smelled  of  a  number  of  things, 
licked  the  snow  a  few  times,  and  then  returned 
to  his  nest. 

The  next  morning  he  went  early  for  a  drink 
of  water  and  ate  more  willow-twigs.  In  the 
afternoon  of  this  day  he  came  on  a  dead  bird, 
—  apparently  a  junco,  —  which  he  ate.  An- 
other drink,  and  he  lay  down  at  the  foot  of  a 
tree  for  the  night.  The  next  morning  he  drank 
freely  of  water,  surprised  a  rabbit,  which  he 
entirely  devoured,  and  then  lay  down  and  prob- 
ably slept  until  noon  the  following  day.  On  this 
day  he  found  a  dead  grouse,  and  toward  even- 
ing he  caught  another  rabbit. 

The  following  day  he  started  off  with  more 
spirit  than  on  any  of  the  preceding  ones.    Evi- 

204 


£0e  <Bri33fj>  Q^ar 

dently  he  was  hungry,  and  he  covered  more  dis- 
tance that  day  than  in  all  those  preceding.  He 
caught  another  rabbit,  apparently  picked  up 
three  or  four  dead  birds,  and  captured  a  mouse 
or  two. 

Grizzlies  are  born  about  midwinter,  while 
the  mother  is  in  the  hibernating-cave.  The 
number  at  birth  is  commonly  two,  though  some- 
times there  is  only  one,  and  occasionally  there 
are  as  many  as  four.  The  period  between  births 
is  usually  two  years.  Generally  the  young  bears 
run  with  their  mother  a  year  and  sleep  in  the 
cave  with  her  the  winter  after  their  birth. 

At  the  time  of  birth  the  grizzly  is  a  small, 
blind,  almost  hairless,  ugly  little  fellow,  about 
the  size  of  a  chipmunk.  Rarely  does  he  weigh 
more  than  one  pound!  During  the  first  two 
months  he  grows  but  little.  When  the  mother 
emerges  from  the  cave  the  cubs  are  often  no 
larger  than  cottontail  rabbits;  but  from  the 
time  of  emergence  their  appetites  increase  and 
their  development  is  very  rapid. 

They  are  exceedingly  bright  and  playful 
youngsters.     I   have  never  seen  a  collie  that 

205 


(Roc8p  Qtlounfmn  TUonberfcmb 

learned  so  easily  or  took  training  so  readily  as 
grizzly  bear  cubs.  My  experience,  however,  is 
confined  to  five  cubs.  The  loyalty  of  a  dog  to 
his  master  is  in  every  respect  equaled  by  the 
loyalty  of  a  grizzly  cub  to  his  master.  A  grizzly, 
young  or  old,  is  an  exceedingly  sensitive  animal. 
He  is  what  may  be  called  high-strung.  He  does 
unto  you  as  you  do  unto  him.  If  you  are  inva- 
riably kind,  gentle,  and  playful,  he  always  re- 
sponds in  the  same  manner;  but  tease  him,  and 
he  resents  it.  Punish  him  or  treat  him  unfairly, 
and  he  will  become  permanently  cross  and  even 
cruel. 

Grizzly  bears  show  great  variations  in  color. 
Two  grizzlies  of  a  like  shade  are  not  common, 
unless  they  are  aged  ones  that  have  become 
grizzled  and  whitish.  Among  their  colors  are 
almost  jet  black,  dark  brown,  buff,  cinnamon, 
gray,  whitish,  cream,  and  golden  yellow.  I  have 
no  way  of  accounting  for  the  irregularity  of 
color.  This  variation  commonly  shows  in  the 
same  litter  of  cubs;  in  fact  it  is  the  exception 
and  not  the  rule  for  cubs  of  the  same  litter  to 
be  of  one  color.   In  the  Bitter  Root  Mountains, 

206 


Z$t  (Brt33^  (gear 

Montana,  I  saw  four  cubs  and  their  mother  all 
five  of  which  were  of  different  colors. 

The  color  of  the  grizzly  has  been  and  still  is 
the  source  of  much  confusion  among  hunters 
and  others  who  think  all  grizzlies  are  grayish. 
Other  names  besides  grizzly  are  frequently  used 
in  descriptions  of  this  animal.  Such  names  as 
silver-tip,  baldface,  cinnamon,  and  range  bear 
are  quite  common.  Within  the  bounds  of  the 
United  States  there  are  just  two  kinds  of  bears, 
—  the  grizzly  and  the  black;  these,  of  course, 
show  a  number  of  local  variations,  and  five  sub- 
species, or  races,  of  the  grizzly  are  recognized. 
Formerly  he  ranged  over  all  the  western  part 
of  North  America. 

The  great  Alaskan  bears  are  closely  allied  to 
the  grizzly,  but  the  grizzly  that  is  found  in  the 
United  States  is  smaller  than  most  people  imag- 
ine. Though  a  few  have  been  killed  that  weighed 
a  thousand  pounds  or  a  trifle  more,  the  major- 
ity of  grizzlies  weigh  less  than  seven  hundred 
pounds.  Most  of  the  grizzly's  movements  ap- 
pear lumbering  and  awkward;  but,  despite 
appearances,  the  grizzly  is  a  swift  runner.   He  is 

207 


(RocRp  (nioimfam  /Xt?onberfon& 

agile,  strikes  like  lightning  with  his  fore  paws, 
and,  when  fighting  in  close  quarters,  is  anything 
but  slow.  The  life  of  a  grizzly  appears  to  be 
from  fifteen  to  forty  years. 

In  only  a  few  localities  is  there  any  close  sea- 
son to  protect  him.  Outside  the  National  Parks 
and  a  few  game  preserves  he  is  without  refuge 
from  the  hunter  throughout  the  year.  It  is  not 
surprising  that  over  the  greater  portion  of  his 
old  territory  he  rarely  is  seen.  He  is,  indeed, 
rapidly  verging  on  extermination.  The  lion  and 
the  tiger  are  often  rapacious,  cruel,  sneaking, 
bloodthirsty,  and  cowardly,  and  it  may  be  bet- 
ter for  other  wild  folk  if  they  are  exterminated; 
but  the  grizzly  deserves  a  better  fate.  He  is  an 
animal  of  high  type;  and  for  strength,  mental- 
ity, alertness,  prowess,  superiority,  and  sheer 
force  of  character  he  is  the  king  of  the  wilder- 
ness. It  is  unfortunate  that  the  Fates  have  con- 
spired to  end  the  reign  of  this  royal  monarch. 
How  dull  will  be  the  forest  primeval  without  the 
grizzly  bear!  Much  of  the  spell  of  the  wilder- 
ness will  be  gone. 


(fringing  6ac6  tfy  ^ottst 


(grinding  fa&  t$t  §omt 

|URING  the  last  fifty  years  repeated  fires 
have  swept  through  Western  forests  and 
destroyed  vast  quantities  of  timber.  As  a  result 
of  these  fires,  most  species  of  trees  in  the  West 
have  lost  large  areas  of  their  territory.  There  is 
one  species  of  tree,  however,  that  has,  by  the 
very  means  of  these  fires,  enormously  extended 
its  holdings  and  gained  much  of  the  area  lost 
by  the  others.  This  species  is  the  lodge-pole 
pine. 

My  introduction  to  this  intrepid  tree  took 
place  in  the  mountains  of  Colorado.  One  day, 
while  watching  a  forest  fire,  I  paused  in  the 
midst  of  the  new  desolation  to  watch  the  be- 
havior of  the  flames.  Only  a  few  hours  before, 
the  fire  had  stripped  and  killed  the  half-black- 
ened trees  around  me.  All  the  twigs  were  burned 
off  the  tree  beneath  which  I  stood,  but  the  larger 
limbs  remained ;  and  to  each  of  these  a  score  or 
more  of  blackened  cones  stuck  closely.    Know- 

211 


(RocGg  Qttounfoin  TUonberfanb 

ing  but  little  of  trees  and  being  interested  in  the 
fire,  I  paid  no  attention  to  these  cones  until  a 
number  of  thin,  brownish  bits,  like  insects' 
wings,  came  fluttering  and  eddying  easily  down 
from  the  treetop. 

The  ashes  and  the  earth  around  me  were  still 
warm,  and  the  air  was  misty  with  smoke.  Near 
by,  a  tall  snag  and  some  fallen  logs  smoked  and 
blazed  by  turns.  Again,  a  number  of  these 
tissue  bits  came  fluttering  and  whirling  lightly 
down  out  of  the  fire-killed  treetop.  Watching 
carefully,  I  saw  brown  tissue  bits,  one  after 
another,  silently  climb  out  of  a  blackened  cone 
and  make  a  merry  one-winged  flight  for  the 
earth.  An  examination  of  these  brown  bits 
showed  that  they  were  the  fertile  seeds  of  the 
lodge-pole  pine.  With  heroic  and  inspiring  pio- 
neer spirit,  this  indomitable  tree  was  sowing 
seeds,  beginning  the  work  of  reconstruction 
while  its  fire-ruined  empire  still  smoked. 

It  is  the  first  tree  to  be  up  and  doing  after 
destructive  flames  sweep  by.  Hoarded  seeds  by 
the  million  are  often  set  free  by  fire,  and  most  of 
these  reach  the  earth  within  a  few  hours  or  a  few 

212 


fringing  6acR  i$t  ^oxtzt 

days  after  the  fiery  whirlwind  has  passed  by. 
Being  winged  and  exceedingly  light,  thousands 
are  sometimes  blown  for  miles.  It  would  thus 
appear  that  the  millions  of  lodge-pole  seeds  re- 
leased by  fire  begin  under  most  favorable  con- 
ditions. Falling  as  they  do,  upon  earth  cleaned 
for  their  reception,  there  is  little  or  no  competi- 
tion and  but  few  enemies.  The  fire  has  banished 
most  of  the  injurious  animals,  consumed  com- 
petitors and  their  seeds,  and  prepared  an  ashen, 
mineralized  seed-bed;  not  a  leaf  shades  it,  and 
altogether  it  is  an  ideal  place  for  the  lodge-pole 
seed  and  seedlings. 

It  seems  extraordinary  that  fire,  the  arch- 
enemy of  the  lodge-pole  pine,  should  so  largely 
contribute  to  the  forest  extension  of  this  tree. 
It  is  not  only  one  of  the  most  inflammable  of 
trees  but  it  is  easily  killed  by  fire.  Despite  these 
weaknesses,  such  are  the  remarkable  character- 
istics of  this  species  that  an  increase  in  the  num- 
ber of  forest  fires  in  the  West  will  enable  this 
tree  to  extend  its  holdings;  on  the  other  hand, 
a  complete  cessation  of  fires  would,  in  time,  al- 
most eliminate  it  from  the  forest! 

213 


The  lodge-pole  pine  (Pinus  contorta,  var. 
Murrayana)  lives  an  adventurous  frontier  life, 
and  of  the  six  hundred  kinds  of  North  American 
trees  no  other  has  so  many  pioneer  characteris- 
tics. This  species  strikingly  exhibits  some  of  the 
necessary  requisites  in  trees  that  extend  or 
maintain  the  forest-frontier.  The  characteris- 
tics which  so  largely  contribute  to  its  success 
and  enable  it  to  succeed  through  the  agency  of 
fire  are  its  seed-hoarding  habit  and  the  ability 
of  its  seedling  to  thrive  best  in  recently  fire- 
cleaned  earth,  in  the  full  glare  of  the  sun.  Most 
coniferous  seedlings  cannot  stand  full  sunlight, 
but  must  have  either  completely  or  partly 
shaded  places  for  the  first  few  years  of  their 
lives. 

Trees  grow  from  seed,  sprouts,  or  cuttings. 
Hence,  in  order  to  grow  or  to  bring  back  a  forest, 
it  is  necessary  to  get  seeds,  sprouts,  or  cuttings 
upon  the  ground.  The  pitch  pine  of  New  Jersey 
and  the  redwood  of  California,  whether  felled 
by  fire  or  by  axe,  will  sprout  from  root  or  stump. 
So,  too,  will  the  aspen,  chestnut,  cherry,  cotton- 
wood,  elm,  most  of  the  oaks,  and  many  other 

214 


Qi5rin<jin<j  6acR  i$t  §oxt&t 

kinds  of  trees.  The  extensive  areas  in  New 
Brunswick  and  Maine  that  were  cleared  by  the 
fires  of  1825  were  in  large  part  at  once  regrown 
with  aspen,  most  of  which  sprouted  from  the 
roots  of  burned  aspens.  Willow  is  easily  prop- 
agated from  a  short  section  of  the  root,  trunk, 
or  limb.  These  sections  may  be  broken  from 
the  tree  by  accident,  be  carried  miles  down- 
stream, lodge  on  shore  or  shoal,  and  there  take 
root  and  grow.  Beaver  dams  made  of  willow 
poles  are  commonly  overgrown  in  a  short  time 
with  willow.  Several  years  ago  a  tornado 
wrecked  hundreds  of  willows  along  a  Kansas 
stream.  Each  willow  was  broken  into  scores  of 
pieces,  which  were  carried  and  dropped  along 
the  track  of  the  tornado.  Countless  numbers 
of  them  were  stuck  into  the  earth.  Several 
thousand  willow  trees  were  thus  successfully 
planted  by  this  violent  wind. 

Seeds  are  the  chief  means  by  which  the  forest 
is  extended  or  produced.  They  are  sown  by 
wind  and  gravity,  by  water,  by  birds  and  beasts. 
I  have  dwelt  at  length  upon  the  romance  of  seed- 
scattering  in  "The  Spell  of  the  Rockies,"  in  the 

215 


(£oc(fy  (mountain  T)7onbet(anb 

chapter  concerning  "The  Fate  of  a  Tree  Seed." 
Each  species  of  tree  has  its  own  way  of  scatter- 
ing its  seeds.  Once  upon  the  earth,  they  and  the 
seedlings  that  may  spring  from  them  have  pe- 
culiar limitations  and  special  advantages.  In 
some  cases  —  as,  for  instance,  with  most  wil- 
lows and  poplars  —  these  seeds  must  in  an  ex- 
tremely short  time  find  a  place  and  germinate 
or  they  perish ;  the  seeds  of  few  trees  will  stand 
exposure  for  two  years  and  still  be  fertile. 

It  is  only  a  question  of  a  few  years  until  seeds 
are  carried  to  every  treeless  locality.  They  may 
journey  down-stream  or  across  lakes  on  a  log, 
fly  with  birds  across  mountain-ranges,  ride  by 
easy  stages  clinging  to  the  fur  of  animals,  or  be 
blown  in  storms  across  deserts;  but  these  ad- 
venturous seeds  may  find  grass  in  possession  of 
the  locality  and  so  thickly  sodded  that  for  a 
century  or  longer  they  may  try  in  vain  to  es- 
tablish a  forest. 

Commonly  wind-blown  seeds  are  first  upon 
the  ground  and  the  most  numerous.  Though  it 
is  of  advantage  to  be  the  first  upon  the  ground, 
it  is  of  immense  importance  that  the  seed  which 

216 


falls  in  an  opening  produce  a  seedling  which 
thrives  in  the  sun-glare,  —  which  grows  without 
shade.  The  seedlings  of  our  great  oaks  and  most 
strong  and  long-lived  trees  cannot  thrive  unless 
shielded  from  the  sun,  sheltered  from  the  wind, 
and  protected  from  the  sudden  temperature- 
changes  which  so  often  afflict  openings.  While 
these  maintain  the  forest  areas,  they  extend  it 
but  little.  Only  a  small  number  of  trees  have 
the  peculiar  frontier  characteristics.  Young 
trees  which  cannot  live  in  the  sun  are  called 
tolerant,  —  they  tolerate  shade  and  need  it. 
Species  which  conquer  sunny  territory  are  called 
intolerant,  —  they  cannot  stand  shade  and 
need  sunlight.  It  will  thus  be  seen  that  the  ac- 
quirement of  treeless  territory  by  any  species 
of  tree  demands  not  only  that  the  tree  get  its 
seeds  upon  the  earth  in  that  territory,  but  also 
that  the  seeds,  once  there,  have  the  ability  to 
survive  in  the  sunlight  and  endure  the  sudden 
changes  of  the  shelterless  opening.  Most  species 
of  oaks,  elms,  firs,  and  spruces  require  shade 
during  their  first  few  years,  and  though  they 
steadfastly  defend  possessions,  they  can  do  but 

217 


(£oc%  (mountain  TUonfcerfanb 

little  toward  winning  new  territory.  On  the 
other  hand,  aspens,  willows,  gray  birch,  cotton- 
wood,  old-field  pine,  and  lodge-pole  pine  pro- 
duce seedlings  that  glory  in  the  sunlight  and 
seek  to  gain  more  territory,  —  to  push  forward 
the  forest-frontier. 

Again  and  again  the  forest  has  been  swept 
away  by  fire ;  but  again  and  again  a  few  aggres- 
sive species  have  retaken  speedily  the  lost  ter- 
ritory. In  this  pioneer  reclamation  the  aspen 
and  the  lodge-pole  are  leaders.  The  aspen  fol- 
lows the  water-courses,  running  along  the 
muddy  places,  while  the  lodge-pole  occupies 
the  dry  and  rocky  slope  of  the  burned  area. 
Seen  from  a  distance  the  aspen  groves  suggest 
bright  ribbons  and  pockets  on  the  sombre 
cloak  with  which  lodge-pole  drapes  the  moun- 
tain. And  even  beneath  the  trees  the  contrast 
between  the  methods  of  these  two  agents  of 
reforestation  is  marked.  The  lodge-pole  pine 
is  all  for  business.  Its  forest  floor  is  swept 
clean  and  remains  uncarpeted.  The  aspen 
groves,  on  the  other  hand,  seem  like  the  haunts 
of  little  women.    Here  the  floor  has  a  carpet  of 

218 


(fringing  6ac8  t$t  §qub( 

grass  gay  with  columbines,  sweet  peas,  and 
wild  roses.  While  the  aspens  and  the  lodge- 
poles  are  still  young  they  begin  to  shelter  the 
less  hardy  coniferous  seedlings.  But  sooner  or 
later  both  the  aspens  and  the  lodge-poles  them- 
selves are  smothered  by  their  nurslings.  They 
then  surrender  their  areas  to  forest  trees  that 
will  live  to  be  many  times  their  age. 

But  that  species  which  is  preeminently  suc- 
cessful in  bringing  back  the  forest  to  a  burned- 
over  area  is  the  lodge-pole  pine.  It  produces 
seeds  each  year  and  commonly  hoards  them  for 
many  years.  Its  seeds  are  light,  winged,  and 
easily  carried  by  the  wind.  As  they  are  fre- 
quently released  by  fire,  they  are  sown  at  the 
most  opportune  time,  scattered  in  profusion, 
and,  in  windy  weather,  transported  long  dis- 
tances. 

Commonly  lodge-pole  pine  holds  on  to,  or 
hoards,  a  percentage  of  the  seeds  it  bears;  that 
is  to  say,  these  seeds  remain  in  the  cone,  and 
the  cone  remains  on  the  tree.  In  some  situa- 
tions it  begins  to  bear  at  eight  years  of  age, 
and  in  most  localities  by  the  time  it  is  twelve. 

219 


(Roc%  (fllounfom  Tftonberfonb 

Year  after  year  the  cones,  with  their  fertile 
seeds  safely  enclosed,  are  borne  and  cling  to 
the  tree.  Some  of  these  cones  remain  unopened 
from  three  to  nine  years.  A  small  percentage 
of  them  do  not  open  and  distribute  their  seeds 
until  they  have  been  on  the  tree  from  twelve 
to  twenty  years,  and  many  of  the  cones  cling 
to  the  tree  through  life. 

Under  favorable  conditions  the  lodge-pole 
is  a  rapidly  growing  conifer.  In  a  forty-five-year 
growth  near  my  home,  the  varied  light  and 
soil  conditions  were  so  spotted  that  in  a  small 
area  marked  differences  in  growth  were  shown. 
A  few  clusters  were  vigorous,  and  the  trees 
showed  an  average  diameter  of  six  inches  and 
a  height  of  thirty-four  feet.  From  this  the 
size  dropped,  and  in  one  group  the  individ- 
uals were  less  than  one  inch  in  diameter  and 
scarcely  tall  enough  to  be  used  as  a  cane;  yet  all 
were  forty-five  years  old. 

The  lodge-pole  is  not  long-lived.  The  oldest 
one  I  ever  measured  grew  upon  the  slope  of 
Long's  Peak.  It  was  three  hundred  and  forty- 
six  years  of  age,  measured  twenty-nine  inches 

220 


(fringing  Bacft  t$t  §oxwt 

in  diameter,  and  stood  eighty-four  feet  high. 
A  study  of  its  annual  rings  showed  that  at  the 
age  of  two  hundred  it  was  only  eleven  inches 
in  diameter,  with  a  height  of  sixty-nine  feet. 
Evidently  it  had  lived  two  centuries  in  an  over- 
crowded district.  The  soil  and  moisture  con- 
ditions were  good,  and  apparently  in  its  two 
hundred  and  second  year  a  forest  fire  brought 
it  advantages  by  sweeping  away  its  crowding, 
retarding  competitors.  Its  annual  ring  two  hun- 
dred and  two  bore  a  big  fire-scar,  and  after 
this  age  it  grew  with  a  marked  increase  of 
rapidity  over  the  rate  of  previous  years.  A 
mature  lodge-pole  of  average  size  and  age 
measures  about  eighteen  inches  in  diameter 
and  stands  sixty  feet  high,  with  an  age  of  be- 
tween one  hundred  and  twenty-five  and  one 
hundred  and  seventy-five  years. 

The  clinging  habit  of  the  cones  of  the  lodge- 
pole  pine  in  rare  cases  causes  numbers  of 
them  to  be  caught  by  the  expanding  tissues, 
held,  and  finally  overgrown  and  completely 
buried  up  in  the  tree  like  a  knot.  Commonly 
the  first  crop  of  cones  is  the  one  caught.   These 

221 


(£oc%  (mountain  T&onberfanb 

are  usually  stuck  a  few  inches  apart  in  two 
vertical  opposite  rows  along  the  slender  trunk. 
Each  knob-like  cone  is  held  closely  against  the 
trunk  by  a  short,  strong  stem. 

I  have  a  ten-foot  plank  from  the  heart  of  a 
large  tree  which  shows  twenty-eight  imbedded 
cones.  The  biography  of  this  tree,  which  its 
scroll  of  annual  rings  pictured  in  the  abstract, 
is  of  interest.  The  imbedded  cones  grew  upon 
the  sapling  before  it  was  thirty  years  old  and 
when  it  was  less  than  twenty-five  feet  high. 
They  appeared  upon  the  slender  trunk  before 
it  was  an  inch  in  diameter.  Twenty-six  annual 
wood-rings  formed  around  them  and  covered 
them  from  sight  as  completely  as  the  seeds  the 
cone-scales  clasped  and  concealed.  The  year 
of  this  completed  covering,  as  the  annual  rings 
showed,  was  1790.  Then  the  tree  was  sixty- 
six  years  of  age;  it  came  into  existence  in  1724, 
and  apparently,  from  the  forest-history  of  the 
place,  in  the  pathway  of  a  fire.  This  lodge-pole 
lived  on  through  one  hundred  and  eighty-two 
years.  In  the  spring  of  1906  a  woodsman  cut 
it  down.    A  few  weeks  later  two-inch  planks 

222 


OVERGROWN    CONKS    IN    THE    !IK\RT   OF   A    LODGE-I'Ol  I     PINE 

(Showing  aUo  the  cones  as  borne  on  the  twigs  and  an  early  stage  of  the 

overgrowing  process) 


were  sliced  from  the  log  of  this  tree  in  a  saw- 
mill. The  fourth  cut  split  the  pith  of  the  tree, 
and  the  startled  sawyer  beheld  a  number  of 
imbedded  cones  stuck  along  and  around  the 
pith,  the  heart  of  this  aged  pine.  These  cones 
and  the  numerous  seeds  which  they  contained 
were  approximately  one  hundred  and  fifty  years 
old.  I  planted  two  dozen  of  the  seeds,  and  three 
of  these  were  fertile  and  sprouted. 

Old  trees  may  carry  hundreds  or  even  thou- 
sands of  seed-filled  cones.  Once  I  counted  14,137 
of  these  on  the  arms  of  one  veteran  lodge-pole. 
If  we  allow  but  twenty  seeds  to  the  cone,  this 
tree  alone  held  a  good  seed-reserve.  Commonly 
a  forest  fire  does  not  consume  the  tree  it  kills. 
With  a  lodge-pole  it  usually  burns  off  the  twigs 
and  the  foliage,  leaving  many  of  the  cones 
unconsumed.  The  cones  are  excellent  fire- 
resisters,  and  their  seeds  usually  escape  injury, 
even  though  the  cones  be  charred.  The  heat, 
however,  melts  the  resinous  sealing-wax  that 
holds  the  cone-scales  closed.  I  have  known  the 
heat  of  a  forest  fire  to  be  so  intense  as  to 
break  the  seals  on  cones  that  were  more  than  one 

22^ 


(Roc%  (mountain  T27onberfanb 

hundred  feet  beyond  the  side  line  of  the  fire. 

In  most  cases  the  seedlings  spring  up  on  a 
burned-over  area  the  year  following  the  fire. 
Often  they  stand  as  thickly  as  grain  in  the 
field.  Under  favorable  conditions  as  many  as 
one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  will  appear 
upon  an  acre,  and  a  stand  of  fifty  thousand  to 
the  acre  is  not  uncommon.  Starting  in  a  close, 
even  growth,  they  usually  suppress  for  years  all 
other  species  of  trees  and  most  other  plants. 
Their  growth  is  mostly  upward  —  about  the 
only  direction  possible  for  expansion  —  with 
moderate  rapidity.  In  a  few  years  they  are 
tall  but  exceedingly  slender,  and  they  become 
poles  in  from  twenty-five  to  fifty  years.  The 
trappers  named  this  tree  lodge-pole  because  of 
its  common  use  by  the  Indians  for  lodge,  or 
tepee,  poles. 

In  overcrowded  stands,  especially  those  in 
which  groups  or  individual  trees  have  slight 
advantages  over  their  neighbors,  a  heavy  per- 
centage of  the  growth  may  die  annually  for  the 
want  of  nutrition.  If  equal  opportunities  pre- 
vail in  a  crowded  tract,  all  will  grow  slowly 

224 


(fringing  6acR  tfyt  §oxt&t 

until  some  have  an  advantage;  these  will  then 
grow  more  rapidly,  and  shade  and  suppress 
neighboring  competitors. 

The  lodge-pole  does  good  work  in  developing 
places  that  are  inhospitable  to  other  and  longer- 
lived  trees,  but  it  gives  way  after  preparing  for 
the  coming  and  the  triumph  of  other  species. 
By  the  time  lodge-poles  are  sixty  years  of  age 
their  self-thinning  has  made  openings  in  their 
crowded  ranks.  In  these  openings  the  shade- 
enduring  seedlings  of  other  species  make  a  start. 
Years  go  by,  and  these  seedlings  become  great 
trees  that  overtop  the  circle  of  lodge-poles 
around  them.  From  this  time  forward  the  lodge- 
pole  is  suppressed,  and  ultimately  its  fire-ac- 
quired territory  is  completely  surrendered  to 
other  species.  It  holds  fire-gained  areas  from 
seventy-five  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  years.  It 
is  often  supplanted  by  Douglas  or  Engelmann 
spruce.  Let  fire  sweep  these,  and  back  comes 
the  lodge-pole  pine. 

Though  it  distances  all  competitors  in  taking 
possession  of  fire-cleared  territory,  it  is  less  suc- 
cessful  than  its  fellows  in  entering  a  territory 


already  occupied  by  other  trees  or  by  grass, 
because  its  seedlings  cannot  endure  shade,  and 
its  seeds  will  not  germinate  or  take  root  except 
they  be  brought  directly  into  contact  with 
clean  mineral  soil.  The  lodge-pole,  therefore, 
needs  the  assistance  of  fire  both  to  acquire  and 
to  hold  territory.  Increase  the  number  of  forest 
fires,  and  the  lodge-pole  extends  its  holdings;  if 
we  could  stop  fires  altogether,  the  lodge-pole 
would  become  almost  extinct. 

The  lodge-pole  has  an  astonishing  altitudinal 
as  well  as  latitudinal  range.  Scattered  pretty 
well  over  the  mountain  region  of  the  western 
United  States,  thence  northward  along  the 
coast  over  much  of  the  head-waters  of  the 
Yukon  in  Alaska,  it  occupies  an  enormous  area. 
Over  this  it  adapts  itself  with  marked  success 
to  a  variety  of  soil,  moisture,  and  climatic  con- 
ditions, and  covers  ragged  tracts  from  warm 
sea-beaches  to  dry,  cold  mountain  slopes  eleven 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  In  many  places  it 
surrenders  the  traditional  pole  form  of  its  race 
and  wins  success  by  becoming  thick-barked, 
stocky,  and  limb-covered  from  top  to  bottom. 


Qttounfatn  (parta 


QUounfaitt  {pat&s 

^J^HE  grassy  park  openings  within  the  moun- 
V^  tain  forests  are  among  the  great  charms  of 
the  outdoor  world.  These  are  as  varied  in  their 
forms  as  clouds,  delightfully  irregular  of  out- 
line. Their  ragged-edged  border  of  forest,  with 
its  grassy  bays  and  peninsulas  of  trees,  is  a 
delight.  Numbers  are  bordered  by  a  lake  or  a 
crag,  and  many  are  crossed  by  brooks  and  dec- 
orated with  scattered  trees  and  tree-clumps. 
Others  extend  across  swelling  moraines.  All  are 
formed  on  Nature's  free  and  flowing  lines,  have 
the  charms  of  the  irregular,  and  are  model  parks 
which  many  landscape  gardeners  have  tried  in 
vain  to  imitate.  They  vary  in  size  from  a  mere 
grass-plot  to  a  wide  prairie  within  the  forest. 

"Park"  is  the  name  given  to  most  of  these 
openings,  be  they  large  or  small .  There  are  many 
of  these  scattered  through  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains. North,  South,  and  Middle  Parks  of  Colo- 
rado are  among  the  largest.    These  larger  ones 

229 


are  simply  meadows  on  a  magnificent  scale. 
Each  is  an  extensive  prairie  of  irregular  outline 
surrounded  by  high  forest-draped  mountains 
with  snowy  peaks,  —  an  inter-mountain  plain 
broken  by  grassy  hills  and  forested  ridges. 
Here  a  mountain  peninsula  thrusts  out  into  the 
lowland,  and  there  a  grassy  bay  extends  a  few 
miles  back  into  the  forested  mountains.  Samuel 
Bowles,  in  the  "Springfield  Republican,"  gave 
the  following  description  of  Middle  Park  while 
it  was  still  primeval:  "Above  us  the  mountain 
peaks  go  up  sharp  with  snow  and  rock,  and 
shut  in  our  view;  but  below  and  beyond  through 
wide  and  thick  forests  lies  Middle  Park,  a 
varied  picture  of  plain  and  hill,  with  snowy 
peaks  beyond  and  around.  ...  It  offers  as 
much  of  varied  and  sublime  beauty  in  moun- 
tain scenery  as  any  so  comparatively  easy  a  trip 
within  our  experience  possibly  can.  ...  A  short 
ride  brought  us  into  miles  of  clear  prairie, 
with  grass  one  to  two  feet  high,  and  hearty 
streams  struggling  to  be  first  into  the  Pacific 
Ocean.  This  was  the  Middle  Park,  and  we  had 
a  long  twenty-five  miles  ride  northerly  through 

230 


Qttounfcun  (paxfo 

it  that  day.  It  was  not  monotonous  by  any 
means.  Frequent  ranges  of  hills  break  the 
prairie;  the  latter  changes  from  rich  bottom 
lands  with  heavy  grass,  to  light,  cold  gravelly 
uplands,  thin  with  bunch  grass  and  sage  brush ; 
sluggish  streams  and  quick  streams  alternate; 
belts  of  hardy  pines  and  tender-looking  aspens 
(cottonwood)  lie  along  the  crests  or  sides  of  the 
hills;  farther  away  are  higher  hills  fully  wooded, 
and  still  beyond  the  range  that  bounds  the 
Park  and  circles  it  with  eternal  snows." 

During  one  of  his  early  exploring  expedi- 
tions, John  C.  Fremont  visited  North  Park  and 
wrote  of  it  as  follows:  "The  valley  narrowed  as 
we  ascended  and  presently  degenerated  into 
a  gorge,  through  which  the  river  passed  as 
through  a  gate  —  a  beautiful  circular  valley 
of  thirty  miles  in  diameter,  walled  in  all  around 
with  snowy  mountains,  rich  with  water  and 
with  grass,  fringed  with  pine  on  the  mountain 
sides  below  the  snow  line  and  a  paradise  to  all 
grazing  animals.  We  continued  our  way  among 
the  waters  of  the  park  over  the  foothills  of  the 
bordering  mountains." 

231 


(Koclty  (mountain  TUonbttfonb 

Hayden  Valley  in  the  Yellowstone  National 
Park  is  another  large  grassy  opening  in  a  moun- 
tain forest.  This  valley  apparently  was  once  a 
vast  arm  of  Yellowstone  Lake. 

Estes  Park,  in  Colorado,  is  one  of  the  most 
attractive  as  well  as  the  best  known  of  the 
mountain  parks.  Although  much  smaller  than 
Middle  or  South  Park,  it  is  much  larger  than 
hundreds  of  the  other  beautiful  mountain  parks. 
The  Estes  Park  region  embraces  about  one 
hundred  square  miles,  though  only  one  third  of 
this  is  open.  The  approximate  altitude  of  the 
ragged  lowland  park  is  a  trifle  less  than  eight 
thousand  feet.  This  is  entirely  surrounded  by 
high  mountains  which  uphold  a  number  of 
rocky,  snowy  peaks.  In  1875  Dr.  F.  V.  Hayden, 
father  of  the  Yellowstone  Park,  wrote  of  this 
region:  "Within  the  district  treated  we  will 
scarcely  be  able  to  find  a  region  so  favorably 
distinguished  as  that  presented  by  Estes  Park. 
Not  only  has  nature  amply  supplied  this  valley 
with  features  of  rare  beauty  and  surroundings  of 
admirable  grandeur,  but  it  has  thus  distributed 
them  that  the  eye  of  an  artist  may  rest  with 

232 


Qftounfoin  {pax&B 

perfect  satisfaction  on  the  complete  picture 
presented."  Erosion  and  glacial  action  have 
given  this  region  its  form,  while  fire  made  the 
beautiful  opening  or  park  within  a  forest. 

The  majority  of  parks  or  meadow  gardens 
which  decorate  the  forests  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains probably  owe  their  existence  to  fire.  Trees 
and  grass  are  endlessly  contending  for  the  pos- 
session of  the  earth.  In  this  incessant  silent 
struggle  a  sweeping  fire  is  generally  of  advan- 
tage to  the  grass.  Trees  suffer  more  from  fire 
than  does  grass.  It  is  probable  that  repeated 
fires  enable  the  grass  to  hold  the  plains  and 
prairies  against  the  encroachments  of  the  trees. 
Each  forest  fire  commonly  gives  the  grass  pos- 
session of  a  part  of  the  area  formerly  dominated 
by  the  forest.  Usually  both  grass  and  trees 
are  prompt  to  seize  any  fire-cleared  area.  The 
grass  may  be  first  to  come,  or  some  space  may 
be  wet  or  in  some  other  way  unfavorable  to  tree 
seed  but  encouraging  to  grass  seed. 

While  forest  fires  bring  many  of  these  parks, 
others  are  glacier  meadows,  lake-basins  which 
time  has  filled  with  sediment  and  sodded  with 

233 


(Roc%  (Tltotmfaitt  Ttfonbttfcmfc 

grass.  Many  are  due  to  the  presence  of  water, 
either  outspreading  surface  water  or  an  excess 
of  underground  water  just  beneath  the  surface, 
—  to  streams  visible  or  invisible.  A  few  result 
from  boggy  places  which  result  from  impaired 
drainage  caused  by  landslips  or  fallen  trees. 
Thousands  were  made  by  beaver  dams,  —  are 
old  beaver  ponds  that  filled  with  sediment  and 
then  grassed  over. 

Most  parks  that  owe  their  origin  to  forest  fires 
have  charcoal  beneath  the  surface.  A  little 
digging  commonly  reveals  charred  logs  or  roots. 
Occasionally,  too,  a  blackened  tree-snag  stands 
suggestively  in  these  treeless  gardens.  In  the 
competition  for  this  territory,  in  which  grass, 
spruces,  aspens,  and  kinnikinick  compete,  grass 
was  successful.  Just  what  conditions  may  have 
been  favorable  to  grass  cannot  be  told,  though 
probably  one  point  was  the  abundance  of  mois- 
ture. Possibly  the  fire  destroyed  all  near-by 
seed  trees,  or  trees  not  destroyed  may  not  have 
borne  seed  until  the  year  following  the  fire. 
Anyway,  grass  often  seizes  and  covers  fire- 
cleared  areas  so  thickly  and  so  continuously 

234 


QHounfain  {pax&B 

with  sod  that  tree  seeds  find  no  opening,  and 
grass  thus  holds  possession  for  decades,  and, 
in  favorable  places,  possibly  for  a  century. 

Trees  grow  up  around  these  areas  and  in  due 
time  the  grassy  park  is  surrounded  by  a  forest. 
The  trees  along  the  edge  of  this  park  extend 
long  limbs  out  into  it.  These  limbs  shade  and 
kill  the  grass  beneath.  Tree  seeds  sprout  where 
the  grass  is  killed,  and  these  seedlings  in  turn 
produce  trees  with  long  limbs  reaching  into  the 
park.  These  shade  and  smother  more  grass  and 
thus  advance  the  forest  another  limb's  length. 
Slowly  but  surely  the  park  is  diminished. 

Struggling  trees  may  sometimes  obtain  a  place 
in  advance  of  the  others  or  a  start  in  the  centre 
of  the  park,  and  thus  hasten  the  death  of  the  park 
and  speed  the  triumph  of  the  trees.  A  mere  in- 
cident may  shorten  the  life  of  a  park.  A  grizzly 
bear  that  I  followed  one  day,  paused  on  a  dry 
point  in  a  park  to  dig  out  some  mice.  In  reach- 
ing these  he  discovered  a  chipmunk  burrow. 
By  the  time  he  had  secured  all  these  he  had 
torn  up  several  square  yards  of  sod.  In  this 
fresh  earth  the    surrounding    trees  sowed  tri- 

235 


umphant  seeds,  from  which  a  cluster  of  spruces 
expanded  and  went  out  to  meet  the  surrounding 
advancing  forest.  Fighting  deer  sometimes  cut 
the  sod  and  thus  allow  a  few  tree  seeds  to  assert 
themselves.  Wind  may  blow  down  a  tall  tree 
which  lands  in  the  edge  of  the  park.  Along  its 
full  length  grows  a  line  of  invading  forest.  Oc- 
casionally the  earth  piled  out  by  a  gopher,  or 
by  a  coyote  in  digging  out  a  gopher,  offers  an 
opportunity  that  is  seized  by  a  tree  seed.  An 
ant-hill  in  a  meadow  may  afford  a  footing  for 
invading  tree  seeds.  On  one  occasion  a  cliff 
tumbled  and  a  huge  rock-fragment  bounded 
far  into  the  sloping  meadow.  Trees  sprang 
up  in  each  place  where  the  rock  tore  the  sod 
and  also  around  where  it  came  to  rest  in  the 
grass. 

These  breaks  in  the  sod  made  by  animals  or 
other  agencies  do  not  always  give  triumph  to 
the  trees.  Seedlings  may  eagerly  start  in  these 
openings,  but,  being  isolated,  they  are  in  greater 
danger,  perhaps,  than  seedlings  in  the  forest. 
Rabbits  may  nibble  them,  woodchucks  devour, 
or  insects  overrun  them.  The  surrounding  grass 

236 


Qftounfatn  ($)ar(te 

may  smother  them  and  reclaim  the  temporarily 
lost  opening. 

But,  though  only  one  tree  may  grow,  this  in 
due  time  shades  the  grass,  a  circle  of  young 
trees  rise  around  it,  and  these  in  turn  carry  for- 
ward the  work  of  winning  territory.  At  last  the 
park  is  overgrown  with  trees! 

Glacier  meadows  may  be  seen  in  all  stages  of 
evolution.  The  lake-basin  gouged  by  a  glacier 
goes  through  many  changes  before  it  is  cov- 
ered by  a  forest  and  forgotten.  No  sooner  does 
ice  vanish  and  a  glacier  lake  appear  than  its 
filling-in  is  commenced.  Landslips  and  snow- 
slides  thrust  boulders  and  cliff-fragments  into 
it;  running  water  is  constantly  depositing  sand 
and  sediment  upon  its  bottom.  Sedge  and  moss 
commence  covering  its  surface  as  soon  as  its 
water  becomes  shallow.  In  due  time  it  becomes 
a  bog  with  a  thick  covering  like  a  wet  mattress, 
composed  of  the  matted  roots  of  sedge  and  grass. 
Over  this,  wind  and  water  deposit  earthy  mat- 
ter, but  centuries  may  pass  before  the  bog  is 
filled  in  sufficiently  to  have  a  dry  surface  and 
produce  grass  and  flowers  and  finally  trees. 

237 


Once  while  strolling  through  a  forested  flat 
in  central  Colorado,  I  concluded  from  the  to- 
pography of  the  country  that  it  must  formerly 
have  been  a  glacier  lake.  I  procured  tools  and 
sank  a  shaft  into  the  earth  between  the  spruces. 
At  a  depth  of  two  feet  was  a  gravelly  soil-de- 
posit, and  beneath  this  a  matting  of  willow  roots 
and  sedge  roots  and  stalks.  These  rested  in  a 
kind  of  turf  at  water-level,  beneath  which  were 
boulders,  while  under  these  was  bed-rock.  Nu- 
merous romantic  changes  time  had  made  here. 

Many  of  these  meadows  are  as  level  as  the 
surface  of  a  lake.  Commonly  the  surface  is 
comparatively  smooth,  even  though  one  edge 
may  be  higher  than  the  other.  I  measured  one 
meadow  that  was  three  thousand  feet  long  by 
two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  wide.  Tree-ranks 
of  the  surrounding  forest  crowded  to  its  very 
edge.  On  the  north  the  country  extended  away 
only  a  foot  or  two  higher  than  meadow-level. 
On  the  south  a  mountain  rose  steeply,  and  this 
surface  of  the  meadow  was  four  feet  higher  than 
the  one  opposite.  The  up-the-mountain  end 
was  about  three  feet  higher  than  the  end  which 

238 


(Tftounftun  (parfis 

had  been  the  old  outlet  of  the  lake.  The  steep 
south  shore  had  sent  down  more  material  than 
the  level  one  on  the  north.  In  fact,  water-level 
on  the  north  shore,  though  concealed  by  grass, 
was  almost  precisely  the  same  as  when  the 
waters  of  the  lake  shone  from  shore  to  shore. 
In  one  corner  of  the  meadow  was  an  aspen 
grove.  From  the  mountain-side  above,  a  land- 
slide had  come  down.  Rains  had  eroded  this 
area  to  bed-rock  and  had  torn  out  a  gully  that 
was  several  feet  wide  on  the  slope  below.  This 
washed  material  was  spread  out  in  a  delta-like 
deposit  on  the  surface  of  the  meadow.  Aspens 
took  possession  of  this  delta. 

Glacier  meadows  are  usually  longer-lived 
than  other  mountain  parks.  In  favorable  places 
they  sometimes  endure  for  centuries.  Com- 
monly they  are  slowly  replaced  by  the  extend- 
ing forest.  The  peaty,  turfy  growth  which  covers 
them  is  of  fine  matted  roots,  almost  free  of 
earthy  or  mineral  matter,  and  often  is  a  satu- 
rated mattress  several  feet  in  thickness.  The 
water-level  is  usually  at  the  surface,  but  during 
an  extremely  dry  time  it  may  sink  several  inches 

239 


or  even  a  few  feet.  If  fires  run  during  a  dry 
period  of  this  kind,  the  fire  will  burn  to  water- 
level.  The  ashes  of  this  fire,  together  with  the 
mineral  matter  which  it  concentrates, commonly 
form  a  soil-bed  which  promptly  produces  trees. 
Sometimes,  however,  grass  returns.  Thus, 
while  fire  brings  forth  many  meadows  in  the 
forest,  it  sometimes  is  the  end  of  one  evolved 
from  glacial  action.  A  landslip  often  plunges 
a  peninsula  of  soil  out  upon  a  glacial  meadow. 
This  is  usually  captured  by  trees  in  a  year  or 
two. 

These  parks  make  ideal  camping-places,  — 
wild,  beautiful,  and  alluring  in  every  season. 
I  have  enjoyed  them  when  they  were  white  with 
snow,  mysterious  with  cloud  and  mist,  roman- 
tic with  moonlight,  and  knee-deep  in  the  floral 
wealth  of  June.  Often  I  have  burst  out  upon 
a  sunny  meadow  hidden  away  in  the  solitude 
of  the  forest.  As  it  lies  silent  in  the  sunshine, 
butterflies  with  beautifully  colored  wings  circle 
lightly  above  its  brilliant  masses  of  flowers. 
Here  bears  prowl,  deer  feed,  and  birds  assem- 
ble in  such  numbers  that  the  park  appears  to  be 

240 


(THounfcun  {pax&B 

their  social  centre.  In  these  wild  gardens  the 
matchless  solitaire  is  found.  Often  he  sings  from 
the  top  of  a  spruce  and  accompanies  his  song  by 
darting  off  or  upward  on  happy  wings,  return- 
ing and  darting  again,  singing  all  the  time  as  if 
enchanted. 

Among  the  hundreds  of  these  happy  resting- 
grounds  in  which  I  have  camped,  one  in  the 
San  Juan  Mountains  has  left  me  the  most  mem- 
ories. I  came  there  one  evening  during  a  severe 
gale.  The  wind  roared  and  thundered  as  im- 
pressively as  breakers  on  a  rock-bound  shore. 
By  midnight  the  storm  ceased,  and  the  tall 
trees  stood  as  quietly  as  if  content  to  rest  after 
their  vigorous  exercise  in  the  friendly  wrestling- 
match  with  the  wind.  The  spruces  had  become 
towering  folded  flags  of  fluffy  black.  After  the 
gale  the  sky  was  luminous  with  crowding  stars. 
I  lingered  in  the  centre  of  the  opening  to  watch 
them.  The  heavens  appeared  to  be  made  of 
many  star-filled  skies,  one  behind  the  other. 
The  farthest  one  was  very  remote,  while  the 
closest  seemed  strangely  near  me,  just  above 
the  tops  of  the  trees. 

241 


Many  times  I  have  come  out  of  the  subdued 
light  of  the  pathless  forest  to  enjoy  these  sunny 
openings.  Often  I  have  stood  within  them 
watching  the  butterflies  circling  in  the  sun  or  a 
deer  and  her  fawns  feeding  quietly  across,  and, 
as  I  looked,  I  have  listened  to  the  scolding  of 
the  squirrel  and  the  mellow  ringing  of  the  wood- 
pecker far  away  in  the  forest.  Here  I  have 
watched  the  coming  storm,  have  enjoyed  its 
presence,  and  in  its  breaking  have  seen  the  bril- 
liant bow  rest  its  foundations  in  front  of  the 
trees  just  across  the  meadow.  Sometimes  the 
moon  showed  its  soft  bow  in  the  edge  of  the 
advancing  or  the  breaking  storm. 

One  evening,  before  the  moon  looked  into 
this  fairy  garden,  I  watched  a  dance  of  crowd- 
ing fireflies.  They  were  as  thick  as  snowflakes, 
but  all  vanished  when  the  moonlight  turned  the 
park  into  fairyland.  Rare  shadow  etchings  the 
tall,  short-armed  spruces  made,  as  they  lay  in 
light  along  the  eastern  border  of  this  moon- 
filled  park.  A  blue  tower  of  shadow  stretched 
from  a  lone  spruce  in  the  open  to  the  forest  wall 
beyond.    As  the  moon  rose  higher,  one  of  the 

242 


QUounfam  (parfls 


dead  trees  in  the  edge  of  the  forest  appeared  to 
rise  out  of  the  darkness  and  stand  to  watch  or 
to  serve.  Then  another  rose,  and  presently  two 
appeared  side  by  side  and  edged  into  the  light. 
They  might  have  been  conversing.  As  the  night 
advanced,  the  shadow  of  the  spruces  shortened 
as  their  shadow  points  moved  round  to  the  north. 
As  the  moon  sank  behind  a  mountain,  the  dead 
trees  settled  back  into  the  darkness,  and,  just 
before  light  left  the  park,  the  two  broken  trees 
moved  behind  a  shadow  and  vanished.  They 
were  scarcely  out  of  sight  when  the  weird  cries  of 
a  fox  sounded  from  the  farther  edge  of  the  woods. 
Those  who  believe  in  fairies  will  receive  the 
most  from  Nature.  The  unfenced  wilderness  is 
full  of  wild  folk,  full  of  fairy  gardens  and  homes. 
With  these  a  careless  prowler  is  rarely  welcome. 
Wasps  and  bees  early  gave  me  sharp  hints  on 
blundering,  hurried  intrusion,  and  a  mother 
grizzly  with  two  cubs  by  her  side  also  impressed 
me  concerning  this  matter.  Birds  sometimes 
made  me  ashamed  for  breaking  in  upon  them. 
I  did  no  shooting,  carried  only  a  kodak,  and 
was  careful  to  avoid  rushing  from  one  place  to 

243 


(Roc6j>  QUounfotn  T)7onber(anb 

another;  but  refined  wilderness  etiquette  was 
yet  to  be  learned.  Usually  I  felt  welcome  in  the 
most  secluded  place,  but  one  day,  having  wan- 
dered out  into  the  corner  of  the  meadow,  I  felt 
that  I  was  not  only  an  uninvited  guest,  but  a 
most  unwelcome  intruder. 

The  meadow  was  a  deeply  secluded  one,  such 
as  the  fairies  would  naturally  reserve  for  them- 
selves. Towering  spruces  shut  it  out  from  the 
world.  A  summer  play  was  surely  in  progress 
when  I  blundered  upon  the  scene.  With  my 
intrusion  everything  stopped  abruptly.  Each 
flower  paused  in  the  midst  of  its  part,  the  music 
of  the  thrush  broke  off,  the  tall  spruces  scowled 
stiffly,  and  the  slender,  observant  young  trees 
stood  unwillingly  still.  Plainly  all  were  annoyed 
at  my  presence,  and  all  were  waiting  impatiently 
for  me  to  be  gone.  As  I  retreated  into  the  woods, 
a  breeze  whispered  and  the  spruces  made  stately 
movements.  The  flowers  in  the  meadow  re- 
sumed their  dance,  the  aspen  leaves  their  merry 
accompaniment,  the  young  trees  their  graceful 
swaying  and  bowing,  and  the  fairies  and  bees 
became  as  happy  as  before. 

244 


(Tftounfain  (JJarite 

A  camp-fire  anywhere  in  the  wilderness  ap- 
peals strongly  to  the  imagination.  To  me  it  was 
most  captivating  in  a  little  mountain  meadow. 
Even  in  a  circle  of  friends  it  may  shut  out  all 
else,  and  with  it  one  may  return  through  "yes- 
terday's seven  thousand  years."  But  to  be 
completely  under  its  spell  one  must  be  alone 
with  its  changing  flame.  Although  I  have 
watched  the  camp-fire  all  alone  in  many  scenes, 
—  in  the  wilderness,  at  the  shore  of  the  sea, 
at  timber-line,  and  on  the  desert  in  the  shadow 
of  the  prehistoric  cactus,  —  nowhere  has  my  im- 
agination been  more  deeply  stirred  than  it  was 
one  night  by  my  camp-fire  in  a  little  mountain 
meadow.  Around  were  the  silent  ranks  of  trees. 
Here  the  world  was  new  and  the  fire  blazed 
in  primeval  scenes.  Its  strange  dance  of  lights 
and  shadows  against  the  trees  rebuilt  for  me  the 
past.  Once  more  I  felt  the  hopes  and  dreads 
of  savage  life.  Once  more  I  knew  the  legends 
that  were  told  when  the  first  camp-fire  burned. 


©trough  in  Qgwtoer  T27ot£& 


©trough  in  (gtmt  ISotfr 

/VVot  until  one  year  of  drought  did  I  realize 
\*y  how  dependent  the  beaver  is  upon  a  con- 
stant water-supply  that  is  both  fresh  and  am- 
ple. A  number  of  beaver  colonies  close  to  my 
cabin  were  badly  afflicted  by  this  dry  period. 
I  was  already  making  special  studies  of  beaver 
ways  among  the  forty-odd  beaver  colonies  that 
were  within  a  few  miles  of  my  mountain  home, 
and  toward  the  close  of  this  droughty  summer 
I  made  frequent  rounds  among  the  beaver.  By 
the  middle  of  September  I  confined  these  atten- 
tions to  five  of  the  colonies  that  were  most 
affected  by  low  water.  Two  were  close  to  each 
other,  but  upon  separate  brooks.  The  other 
three  were  upon  one  tumbling  streamlet. 

Autumn  is  the  busiest  time  of  the  year  in 
beaver  world.  Harvest  is  then  gathered,  the 
dam  is  repaired,  sometimes  the  pond  is  partly 
dredged,  and  the  house  is  made  ready  for  win- 
ter, —  all  before  the  pond  freezes  over.    But 

249 


(Roc%  (ttlounfatn  Tl7onbetrfanb 

drought  had  so  afflicted  these  colonies  that  in 
only  one  had  any  of  the  harvest  been  gathered. 
This  one  I  called  the  Cascade  Colony.  It  was 
the  uppermost  of  the  three  that  were  dependent 
upon  this  one  stream.  Among  the  five  colonies 
that  I  observed  that  autumn,  this  one  had  the 
most  desperate  and  tragic  experience. 

Toward  the  close  of  September  the  colonists 
in  each  of  the  five  colonies  gave  most  of  their 
attention  to  the  condition  of  their  dam.  Every 
leak  was  stopped,  and  its  water  face  was  given 
a  thick  covering  of  mud,  most  of  which  was 
dredged  from  the  bottom  of  the  pond. 

The  beaver  is  intimately  associated  with 
water.  He  is  not  a  landsman,  and  only  neces- 
sity will  cause  him  to  go  far  from  the  water. 
The  water  in  a  main  beaver  pond  is  usually  three 
or  more  feet  deep,  a  depth  needed  all  the  year 
around.  Where  nature  has  provided  a  place  of 
this  kind  that  is  close  to  his  food-supply,  the 
beaver  uses  it;  he  will  not  trouble  to  build  a  dam 
and  form  a  pond  of  deep  water  unless  this  is 
necessary.  But  deep  water  he  must  have;  to 
him  it  is  a  daily  necessity  in  getting  a  living, 

250 


moving  about  the  easiest  way,  and  protecting 
his  life. 

Early  in  October  the  first  colony  below  the 
Cascade  had  to  leave  the  old  home  because  of 
the  scarcity  of  water.  There  were  seven  or 
eight  of  them,  and  all  went  down-stream  and 
joined  another  colony.  From  what  I  know  of 
the  two  colonies  I  judge  that  this  was  probably 
a  case  of  the  old  folks  being  forced  to  take  refuge 
with  their  fortunate  children.  Apparently  they 
were  welcome. 

A  few  days  later  the  lowest  of  the  three  colo- 
nies on  the  Cascade  streamlet  was  also  aban- 
doned. Two  days  before  leaving  home  the  bea- 
ver had  commenced  to  harvest  aspen  for  winter 
food.  A  few  aspens  were  standing  partly  cut; 
a  number  untrimmed  were  lying  where  they 
fell;  several  had  been  dragged  into  the  pond. 
But  suddenly  the  beaver  deserted  the  place. 

The  fifteen  or  sixteen  in  this  colony  went 
down-stream  and  took  possession  of  an  old  and 
abandoned  house  and  pond.  They  hastily  re- 
paired the  dam  and  the  house,  and  they  had 
only  just  begun  to  gather  supplies  for  the  win- 

251 


ter  when  the  pond  froze  over.  In  the  bottom 
of  the  pond,  below  the  ice,  there  may  have 
been  an  abundance  of  the  tuberous  growths  of 
the  pond-lily  or  a  supply  of  intruding  willow 
roots;  both  of  these  the  beaver  often  dig  out 
even  while  the  pond  is  frozen  over.  These  bea- 
ver in  this  old  pond  may  have  pieced  out  their 
scanty  food-supply  with  these  roots  and  en- 
dured until  springtime;  but  I  fear  that  at  best 
they  had  a  close  squeak. 

One  brook  went  dry  and  the  beaver  folk  on 
it  moved  up-stream.  They  left  the  dam  well 
repaired,  a  new  house,  and  a  pile  of  green  aspen 
cuttings  in  the  pond.  They  were  ready  for  win- 
ter when  the  water-failure  forced  them  to  find  a 
new  home.  They  scooped  out  a  small  basin  by 
a  spring  in  the  top  of  a  moraine,  used  the  mate- 
rial for  a  dam,  and  into  the  pond  thus  formed 
dragged  a  few  aspens  and  willows.  A  winter 
den  was  dug  in  the  bank. 

The  colonists  at  the  other  low-water  place 
abandoned  their  home  and  moved  three  miles 
down-stream.  The  tracks  in  the  mud,  a  few  bits 
of  fur,  told  too  well  a  story  of  a  tragedy  during 

252 


©trough  in  $totott  T£orft> 

this  enforced  journey.  While  traveling  along 
the  almost  dry  bed  of  the  stream  and  at  a  point 
where  the  water  was  too  shallow  to  allow  them 
to  dive  and  escape,  two,  and  probably  three,  of 
their  number  were  captured  by  coyotes.  The 
survivors  found  a  deep  hole  in  a  large  channel, 
and  here  they  hurriedly  accumulated  a  scanty 
supply  of  green  aspen.  As  winter  came  on,  they 
dug  a  burrow  in  the  bank.  This  had  a  passage- 
way which  opened  into  the  water  about  two 
feet  below  the  surface  and  close  to  their  food- 
supply. 

The  Cascade  colonists  held  on  for  the  winter. 
Their  pond  was  deep,  and  their  careful  repair 
of  the  dam  had  enabled  them  to  retain  water 
to  the  very  top  of  it.  However,  beaver  cannot 
long  endure  water  that  is  stagnant.  This  is 
especially  true  in  winter-time.  A  beaver  house 
is  almost  without  ventilation,  but  its  entrance 
ways  are  full  of  water;  the  fresh  water  of  the 
pond  appears  to  absorb  impurities  from  the  air 
of  the  house.  Apparently  stagnant  water  will 
not  do  this.  Then,  too,  a  stagnant  pond  freezes 
much  more  rapidly  than  the  waters  of  a  pond 

253 


that  are  constantly  stirred  and  aerated  by  the 
inflow  of  fresh  water.  The  Cascade  colonists 
entered  the  winter  with  an  abundant  food- 
supply  that  was  stored  close  to  the  house.  The 
pond  was  full  of  water,  but  it  was  becoming 
stagnant.  The  drought  continued  and  no  snow 
fell.  This  was  another  disadvantage  to  the  col- 
ony. If  a  pond  is  thickly  blanketed  with  snow, 
it  does  not  freeze  so  deeply  nor  so  rapidly 
as  when  its  surface  is  bare.  By  the  middle  of 
October  the  pond  was  solidly  frozen.  Drought 
and  continued  cold  weather  came  and  stayed. 
Christmas  week  not  a  drop  of  water  was  flow- 
ing from  the  pond  and  apparently  none  was 
flowing  into  it.  The  ice  was  clear,  and,  the  day 
I  called,  there  appeared  to  be  digging  going  on 
in  the  pond  beneath  the  ice;  close  to  the  dam 
the  water  was  so  roily  that  I  could  not  see  into 
it. 

On  the  first  of  February  I  sounded  the  ice  in 
a  number  of  places.  It  seemed  to  be  frozen  sol- 
idly to  the  bottom.  This  pond  was  circular  in 
outline,  and  the  house  stood  near  the  centre  in 
about  three  feet  of  water.    I  climbed  up  on  the 

254 


©trough  in  qgfeafctt  T&orfo 

house  and  stood  there  for  some  time.  Com- 
monly in  the  winter  an  inhabited  beaver  house 
gives  a  scent  to  the  small  amount  of  air  that 
escapes  from  the  top,  and  this  tells  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  living  beaver  inside.  But  I  was  un- 
able to  detect  the  slightest  beaver  scent  in  the 
air.  Apparently  the  water  in  the  pond  was 
frozen  from  top  to  bottom;  probably  all  the 
beaver  had  perished,  unless  they  had  managed 
to  dig  out,  as  they  sometimes  do,  by  tunneling 
beneath  the  dam  into  the  brook-channel  below. 
Many  old  beaver  ponds  have  a  subway  in  the 
mud  of  the  bottom.  One  opening  is  close  to  the 
entrance  of  the  house;  the  other  at  a  point  on 
shore  a  few  feet  or  several  yards  beyond  the 
edge  of  the  pond.  This  offers  a  means  of  escape 
from  the  pond  in  case  it  is  frozen  to  the  bottom 
or  if  it  be  drained.  A  careful  search  failed  to 
reveal  any  tunnel,  new  or  old,  through  which 
these  beaver  might  have  escaped. 

I  determined  to  know  their  fate  and  went  to 
my  cabin  for  an  axe  and  a  shovel.  A  hole  was 
cut  in  the  ice  midway  between  the  beaver  house 
and  the  food-pile,  —  a  pile  of  green  aspen  cut- 

255 


QJocfig  (Wounfatn  TUontorfanb 

tings  about  twelve  feet  away  from  the  house. 
The  pond  was  solidly  frozen  to  the  bottom,  and 
the  beaver  had  all  been  caught.  The  entrances 
to  their  house  were  full  of  ice.  One  beaver  was 
found  at  the  food-pile,  where  he  apparently 
had  been  gnawing  off  a  bark-covered  stick.  One 
was  dead  between  the  food-pile  and  the  house. 
The  others  were  dead  by  the  entrance  of  an  in- 
complete tunnel  beneath  the  dam,  which  they 
apparently  had  been  digging  as  a  means  of 
escape  when  death  overtook  them.  One  had 
died  while  gnawing  at  the  ice-filled  entrance  of 
the  house.  Inside  of  the  house  were  the  bodies 
of  two  very  old  beaver  and  four  young  ones, 
frozen  solid. 

The  death  of  these  little  people,  one  and  all, 
in  their  home  under  the  ice,  may  have  come 
from  suffocation,  from  cold,  from  starvation,  or 
from  a  combination  of  all  these;  I  do  not  know. 
But  my  observations  made  it  clear  that  the 
drought  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all. 


3n  t$t  TXtinUx  &no)x>& 


3n  i%t  IX&xstex  ^noto* 

5 OR  years  I  wondered  how  big  game  managed 
to  live  through  the  hard  winters.  How  did 
they  obtain  food  while  the  snows  lay  deep? 
Two  winters  of  snowshoeing  through  the  Rocky 
Mountains  as  Snow  Observer  often  brought  me 
in  contact  with  wild  game.  These  wanderings, 
together  with  numerous  winter  camping-excur- 
sions through  the  woods  in  other  scenes,  gave 
me  many  a  glimpse  of  the  winter  manners  and 
customs  of  big  wild  folk. 

One  autumn  a  heavy  snow-storm  caught  me 
in  the  mountains  of  Colorado  without  snow- 
shoes.  In  getting  out  of  this  I  found  it  easier  to 
wade  down  a  shallow  unfrozen  stream  than 
to  wallow  through  deep  snow.  Presently  I  came 
upon  a  herd  of  deer  who  were  also  avoiding  the 
deep  snow  by  using  a  water-way.  They  were 
traveling  along  in  the  river  and  occasionally 
paused  to  feed  off  the  banks.  Out  all  floundered 

259 


(Kocfy)  (Wlounfain  T3?onber£<mb 

into  the  snow  to  let  me  pass.  They  reentered 
the  water  before  I  was  out  of  sight. 

A  few  days  later  I  returned  on  snowshoes  to 
see  how  they  were  faring.  Deep  snow  had  not 
seriously  concerned  them.  They  were  in  a  snow- 
less  place  near  the  river.  During  the  storm 
an  accumulation  of  sludgy,  floating  snow  had 
formed  a  temporary  dam  in  the  stream,  which 
raised  the  water  and  flooded  a  near-by  flat. 
Presently  the  dam  went  out,  and  the  water  ran 
off;  but  the  water  carried  with  it  some  of  the 
snow,  and  it  had  dissolved  much  of  the  remain- 
der. In  this  cleared  place  the  deer  were  feeding 
and  loitering. 

Wild  life  easily  stands  an  ordinary  storm  and 
usually  manages  to  survive  even  a  deep,  long- 
lying  snow.  The  ability  of  big  game  to  endure 
storms  must  in  part  be  due  to  their  acquaint- 
ance with  every  opportunity  afforded  by  the 
restricted  district  in  which  they  live.  Big  wild 
folk  do  not  range  afar  nor  at  random,  nor  do 
they  drift  about  like  gypsies.  Most  animals 
range  in  a  small  locality,  —  spend  their  lives 
in  a  comparatively  small  territory.    They  are 

260 


3n  t§t  Ttiinttx  ^nolos 

familiar  with  a  small  district  and  thus  are  able  to 
use  it  at  all  times  to  the  best  advantage.  They 
know  where  to  find  the  earliest  grass;  where  flies 
are  least  troublesome;  the  route  over  which  to 
retreat  in  case  of  attack ;  and  where  is  the  best 
shelter  from  the  storm. 

With  the  coming  of  a  snow-storm  big  game 
commonly  move  to  the  most  sheltered  spot  in 
their  district.  This  may  or  may  not  be  close  to 
a  food-supply.  A  usual  place  of  refuge  is  in  a 
cover  or  sheltered  spot  on  a  sunny  southern 
slope,  —  a  place,  too,  in  which  the  snow  will 
first  melt.  Immediately  after  a  storm  there  may 
often  be  found  a  motley  collection  of  local  wild 
folk  in  a  place  of  this  kind.  Bunched,  the  big 
game  hope  and  wait.  Unless  the  snow  is  ex- 
tremely deep  they  become  restless  and  begin 
to  scatter  after  two  or  three  days. 

There  are  a  number  of  places  in  each  locality 
which  may  offer  temporary,  or  even  perma- 
nent, relief  to  snow-hampered  game.  These 
are  open  streams,  flood-cleared  flats,  open  spots 
around  springs,  wind-cleared  places,  and  open- 
ings,  large  and    small,   made    by  snow-slides. 

261 


(RocRp  QUounfatn  T2?onber£an5 

During  long-lying  deep  snows  the  big  game 
generally  use  every  local  spot  or  opening  of 
vantage. 

In  many  regions  a  fall  of  snow  is  followed  by 
days  of  fair  weather.  During  these  days  most  of 
the  snow  melts;  often  the  earth  is  almost  free 
of  one  snow  before  another  fall  comes.  In  places 
of  this  kind  the  game  have  periods  of  ease.  But 
in  vast  territories  the  snow  comes,  deepens,  and 
lies  deep  over  the  earth  for  weeks.  To  endure 
long-lying  deep  snows  requires  special  habits 
or  methods.  The  yarding  habit,  more  or  less 
intensely  developed,  is  common  with  sheep,  elk, 
deer,  and  moose  of  all  snowy  lands. 

The  careful  yarding  habit  of  the  moose  is  an 
excellent  method  of  triumphing  over  deep  snow. 
In  early  winter,  or  with  the  deepening  snow,  a 
moose  family  proceed  to  a  locality  where  food 
is  abundant;  here  they  restrict  themselves  to 
a  small  stamping-ground,  —  one  of  a  stone's 
throw  or  a  few  hundred  feet  radius.  Constant 
tramping  and  feeding  in  this  limited  area  com- 
pacts the  snow  in  spaces  and  in  all  the  trails 
so  that  the  animals  walk  on  top  of  it.    Each 

262 


3n  tfyt  1X>inkv  ^nolos 

additional  snow  is  in  turn  trampled  to  sustain- 
ing compactness. 

At  first  the  low-growing  herbage  is  eaten; 
but  when  this  is  buried,  and  the  animals  are 
raised  up  by  added  snow,  they  feed  upon  shrubs; 
then  on  the  willow  or  the  birch  tops,  and  some- 
times on  limbs  well  up  in  the  trees,  which  the 
platform  of  deeply  accumulated  snow  enables 
them  to  reach.  Commonly  moose  stay  all  win- 
ter in  one  yard.  Sometimes  the  giving-out  of 
the  food -supply  may  drive  them  forth.  Then 
they  try  to  reach  another  yard.  But  deep  snow 
or  wolves  may  overcome  one  or  all  on  the  way. 

During  one  snowshoe  trip  through  western 
Colorado  I  visited  seven  deer-yards.  One  of 
these  had  been  attacked  by  wolves  but  prob- 
ably without  result.  Apparently  five  of  the 
others  had  not  as  yet  been  visited  by  deadly 
enemies.  The  seventh  and  most  interesting 
yard  was  situated  in  a  deep  gorge  amid  rugged 
mountains.  It  was  long  and  narrow,  and  in  it 
the  deer  had  fed  upon  withered  grass,  plant 
stalks,  and  willow  twigs.  All  around  the  un- 
d rifted  snow  lay  deep.    The  limbless  bases  of 

263 


the  spruces  were  set  deep  in  snow,  and  their 
lower  limbs  were  pulled  down  and  tangled  in 
it.  These  trees  had  the  appearance  of  having 
been  pushed  part  way  up  through  the  snow.  In 
places  the  cliffs  showed  their  bare  brown  sides. 
Entire  spruce  groves  had  been  tilted  to  sharp 
angles  by  the  slipping  and  dragging  snow  weight 
on  steep  places;  among  them  were  tall  spruces 
that  appeared  like  great  feathered  arrows  that 
had  been  shot  into  snowy  steeps.  The  leafless 
aspens  attractively  displayed  their  white  and 
greenish-white  skin  on  limbs  that  were  held 
just  above  the  snow. 

With  a  curve,  the  yard  shaped  itself  to  the 
buried  stream.  It  lay  between  forested  and 
moderately  steep  mountains  that  rose  high. 
In  this  primeval  winter  scene  the  deer  had  faced 
the  slow-going  snow  in  the  primitive  way.  At 
the  upper  end  of  the  yard  all  the  snow  was 
trampled  to  compactness,  and  over  this  ani- 
mals could  walk  without  sinking  in.  Firm,  too, 
were  the  surfaces  of  the  much  looped  and  oft 
trodden  trails.  The  trail  nearest  to  the  stream 
passed  beneath  a  number  of  beautiful  snow- 

264 


3n  t$t  Ttiinht  ^nolos 

piled  arches.  These  arches  were  formed  of  out- 
reaching  and  interlacing  arms  of  parallel  growths 
of  willow  and  birch  clusters.  The  stream  gur- 
gled beneath  its  storm  window  of  rough  ice. 

I  rounded  the  yard  and  at  the  lower  end  I 
found  the  carcasses  of  the  entire  herd  of  deer, — 
nine  in  all, — evidently  recently  killed  by  a  moun- 
tain lion.  He  had  eaten  but  little  of  their  flesh. 
Wolves  had  not  yet  discovered  this  feast,  but 
a  number  of  Rocky  Mountain  jays  were  there. 
The  dark  spruces  stood  waiting!  No  air  stirred. 
Bright  sunlight  and  bluish  pine  shadows  rested 
upon  the  glazed  whiteness  of  the  snow.  The 
flock  of  cheerful  chickadees  feeding  through  the 
trees  knew  no  tragedy. 

The  winter  food  of  big  game  consists  of  dead 
grass,  shrubs,  twigs,  buds  and  bark  of  trees, 
moss,  and  dry  plants.  At  times  grass  dries  or 
cures  before  the  frost  comes.  When  thus  cured 
it  retains  much  nutrition,  —  is,  in  fact,  un- 
raked  hay.  If  blighted  by  frost  it  loses  its  flavor 
and  most  of  its  food  value. 

During  summer  both  elk  and  deer  range  high 
on  the  mountains.   With  the  coming  of  winter 

265 


(Roclfy  QUounfain  T2?onber(anb 

they  descend  to  the  foothill  region,  where  the 
elk  collect  in  large  herds,  living  in  yards  in  case 
of  prolonged  deep  snow.  Deer  roam  in  small 
herds.  Occasionally  a  herd  of  the  older  elk  will 
for  weeks  live  in  the  comparatively  deep  snow 
on  northern  slopes,  —  slopes  where  the  snow 
crusts  least.  Here  they  browse  off  alder  and 
even  aspen  bark. 

The  present  congestion  of  elk  in  Jackson  Hole 
represents  an  abnormal  condition  brought  about 
by  man.  The  winter  feed  on  which  they  for- 
merly lived  is  devoured  by  sheep  or  cattle  during 
the  summer;  a  part  of  their  former  winter  range 
is  mowed  for  hay ;  they  are  hampered  by  fences. 
As  a  result  of  these  conditions  many  suffer  and 
not  a  few  starve. 

Wolves  are  now  afflicting  both  wild  and  tame 
herds  in  Jackson  Hole.  Apparently  the  wolves, 
which  formerly  were  unknown  here  in  winter, 
have  been  drawn  thither  by  the  food-supply 
which  weak  or  dead  elk  afford. 

The  regular  winter  home  of  wild  sheep  is 
among  the  peaks  above  the  limits  of  tree  growth. 
Unlike  elk  and  deer,   the  mountain  sheep  is 

266 


3n  t$t  iDinkx  ^>noxo0 

found  in  the  heights  the  year  round.  He  may, 
both  in  winter  and  summer,  make  excursions 
into  the  lowlands,  but  during  snowy  times  he 
clings  to  the  heights.  Here  he  usually  finds  a 
tableland  or  a  ridge  that  has  been  freed  of  snow 
by  the  winds.  In  these  snow-free  places  he  can 
feed  and  loiter  and  sometimes  look  down  on 
unfortunate  snow-bound  deer  and  elk. 

The  bunching  habit  of  big  game  during  pe- 
riods of  extreme  cold  or  deep  snow  probably  con- 
fers many  benefits.  It  discourages  the  attacks 
of  carnivorous  enemies,  and  usually  renders 
such  attacks  ineffective.  Crowding  also  gives 
the  greatest  warmth  with  the  least  burning  of 
fat  fuel.  The  conservation  of  energy  by  storm- 
bound animals  is  of  the  utmost  importance.  Cold 
and  snow  make  complicated  endurance  tests; 
the  animals  must  with  such  handicaps  with- 
stand enemies  and  sometimes  live  for  days  with 
but  little  or  nothing  to  eat. 

Big  game,  on  occasions,  suffer  bitterly  through 
a  combination  of  misfortunes.  Something  may 
prevent  a  herd  reaching  its  best  shelter,  and  it 
must  then  endure  the  storm  in  poor  quarters; 

267 


pursuit  may  scatter  and  leave  each  one  stranded 
alone  in  a  bad  place;  in  such  case  each  will  suffer 
from  lonesomeness,  even  though  it  endure  the 
cold  and  defy  enemies.  Most  animals,  even 
those  that  are  normally  solitary,  appear  to  want 
society  during  emergencies. 

A  deep  snow  is  sometimes  followed  by  a  brief 
thaw,  then  by  days  of  extreme  cold.  The  snow 
crusts,  making  it  almost  impossible  for  big  game 
to  move,  but  encouragingly  easy  for  wolves  to 
travel  and  to  attack.  Of  course,  long  periods 
separate  these  extremely  deadly  combinations. 
Probably  the  ordinary  loss  of  big  game  from 
wolves  and  mountain  lions  is  less  than  is  imag- 
ined. 

Some  years  ago  an  old  Ute  Indian  told  me 
that  during  a  winter  of  his  boyhood  the  snow 
for  weeks  lay  "  four  ponies  deep  "  over  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  and  that  "most  elk  die,  many 
ponies  die,  wolves  die,  and  Indian  nearly  die 
too."  A  "Great  Snow"  of  this  kind  is  terrible 
for  wild  folk. 

Snow  and  cold  sometimes  combine  to  do  their 
worst.     The   snow   covers   everything   deeply; 

268 


3n  t$t  Ttiinttx  ^noxos 

then  follows  an  unbroken  period  of  extreme 
cold ;  the  Ice  King  is  again  enthroned ;  the  snow 
fiendishly  refuses  to  melt,  and  lies  for  weeks; 
the  endurance  of  most  wild  folk  becomes  ex- 
hausted, and  birds,  herds,  and  wolves  perish. 
Similar  calamities  used  occasionally  to  afflict 
our  primitive  ancestors. 

Over  the  vast  Northwest  a  feature  of  the  cli- 
mate is  the  winter-annihilating  Chinook  wind. 
This  occasionally  saves  the  people  of  the  wilds 
when  other  relief  is  impossible.  The  snowy  earth 
is  quickly  transformed  by  this  warm,  dry  wind. 
In  a  few  hours  conditions  become  summer-like. 
Fortunately,  the  Chinook  often  follows  a  bliz- 
zard. Many  a  time  at  the  eleventh  hour  it  has 
dramatically  saved  the  waiting,  suffering  birds 
and  rescued  the  snow-buried  and  starving  folk 
of  the  wilds. 

The  beaver  and  the  bear  are  often  benefited 
by  the  deep  snows  which  afflict  their  wild  neigh- 
bors. During  the  prolonged  hibernating  sleep, 
the  bear  does  not  eat,  but  he  commonly  needs 
a  thick  snowy  blanket  to  keep  him  comfortable. 
The  beaver  has  his  winter  stores  on  the  bottom 

269 


(KocRj)  QHounfcun  TJ?onberfanb 

of  the  pond  beneath  the  ice.  These  he  reaches 
from  his  house  by  swimming  beneath  the  ice 
from  the  house  to  the  food-pile.  If  the  ice  is 
not  covered  by  snow,  it  may,  during  a  cold 
winter,  freeze  thickly,  even  to  the  bottom,  and 
thus  cause  a  starving  time  in  the  beaver  colony. 

Deep  snow  appears  not  to  trouble  the  "stu- 
pidest animal  in  the  woods,"  the  porcupine. 
A  deeper  snow  is  for  him  a  higher  platform  from 
which  the  bark  on  the  tree  may  be  devoured. 
Rabbits,  too,  appear  to  fare  well  during  deep 
snow.  This  uplift  allows  them  a  long  feast 
among  the  crowded,  bud-fruited  bush-tops  at 
which  they  have  so  often  looked  in  vain. 

The  chipmunk  is  not  concerned  with  ground- 
hog day.  Last  summer  he  filled  his  underground 
granaries  with  nuts  and  seeds,  and  subways 
connect  his  underground  winter  quarters  with 
these  stores.  But  heavy  snows,  with  their  excess 
of  water,  flood  him  out  of  winter  quarters  in 
spring  earlier  than  he  planned. 

One  March  at  the  close  of  a  wet  snow-fall  I 
went  out  into  a  near-by  pine  grove  to  see  the 
squirrels.    One  descended  from  a  high  hole  to 

270 


3n  i$t  HJinttx  ^noxos 

the  snow  and  without  trouble  located  and  bored 
down  through  the  snow  to  his  cone-deposit. 
,  With  difficulty  he  climbed  up  through  the  heavy 
snow  with  a  cone.  He  did  not  enjoy  floundering 
through  the  clinging  snow  to  the  tree-trunk. 
But  at  last  up  he  started  with  a  snow-laden  cone, 
in  search  of  a  dry  seat  on  which  to  eat.  After 
climbing  a  few  feet  he  tumbled  back  into  the 
unpleasant  snow.  In  some  manner  the  wet 
snow  on  the  tree-trunk  had  caused  his  downfall. 
With  temper  peppery  he  gathered  himself  up, 
and  for  a  moment  glared  at  me  as  though  about 
to  blame  me  for  his  troubles.  Then,  muttering, 
he  climbed  up  the  tree.  Sometimes  the  chip- 
munk, and  the  squirrel  also,  indulge  in  hiber- 
nating periods  of  sleep  despite  their  ample  stores 
of  convenient  food. 

The  ptarmigan  is  preeminently  the  bird  of 
the  snows;  it  is  the  Eskimo  of  the  bird  world. 
It  resides  in  the  land  realm  of  the  Farthest 
North  and  also  throughout  the  West  upon  high 
mountain-tops.  In  the  heights  it  lives  above 
the  limits  of  tree  growth,  close  to  snow-drifts 
that  never  melt,  and  in  places  above  the  alti- 

271 


(g.o&%  (Mountain  TbonUthn* 

tude  of  twelve  thousand  feet.  It  is  a  permanent 
resident  of  the  heights,  and  apparently  only 
starvation  will  drive  it  to  the  lowlands.  Its  win- 
ter food  consists  of  seeds  of  alpine  plants  and 
the  buds  of  dwarf  arctic  willow.  This  willow 
is  matted,  dwarfed,  and  low-growing.  When 
drifted  over,  the  ptarmigan  burrow  into  the 
snow  and  find  shelter  beneath  its  flattened 
growth.   Plere  they  are  in  reach  of  willow  buds. 

Buds  are  freely  eaten  by  many  kinds  of  birds; 
they  are  the  staff  of  life  of  the  ptarmigan  and 
often  of  the  grouse.  They  are  sought  by  rabbits 
and  go  in  with  the  browse  eaten  by  big  game. 
Buds  of  trees  and  shrubs  are  a  kind  of  fruit, 
a  concentrated  food,  much  of  the  nature  of  nuts 
or  tubers. 

The  cheerful  water-ouzel,  even  during  the 
winter,  obtains  much  of  its  food  from  the  bot- 
tom of  brooks  and  lakes.  The  ouzel  spends 
many  winter  nights  in  nooks  and  niches  in  the 
bank  between  the  ice  and  the  water.  This  is  a 
strange  place,  though  one  comparatively  safe 
and  sheltered.  In  getting  into  the  water  beneath 
the  ice,  the  ouzel  commonly  finds  opportunity 

272 


3n  i$t  Tbinkx  ^noU)0 

at  the  outlet  or  the  inlet  of  the  lake;  sometimes 
through  an  opening  maintained  by  spring  water. 
There  are  usually  many  entrances  into  the 
waters  of  a  frozen  brook,  —  openings  by  cas- 
cades and  the  holes  that  commonly  remain  in 
the  ice  over  swift  waters.  Excessive  snow  or 
extreme  cold  may  close  all  entrances  and  thus 
exclude  the  ouzel  from  both  food  and  water. 
Down  the  mountain  or  southward  the  ouzel 
then  goes. 

Woodpeckers  and  chickadees  fare  well  despite 
any  combination  of  extreme  cold  or  deep  snow. 
For  the  most  part  their  food  is  the  larvae  or  the 
eggs  that  are  deposited  here  and  there  in  the 
tree  by  hundreds  of  kinds  of  insects  and  para- 
sites which  afflict  trees.  Nothing  except  a  heavy 
sleet  appears  to  make  these  food-deposits  inac- 
cessible. 

Most  birds  spend  the  winter  months  in  the 
South.  But  bad  conditions  may  cause  resident 
birds  and  animals  to  migrate,  even  in  midwin- 
ter. Extremely  unfavorable  winters  in  British 
Columbia  will  cause  many  birds  that  regularly 
winter  in  that  country  to  travel  one  or  two 

^73 


(Rod)?  (Mountain  T&onberfan© 

thousand  miles  southward  into  the  mountains 
of  Colorado.  Among  the  species  which  thus 
modify  their  habits  are  the  red  crossbill,  the  red- 
poll, the  Lapland  longspur,  and  the  snowy  owl. 

After  all,  there  are  points  in  common  between 
the  animal  life  of  the  wild  and  the  human  life 
of  civilization.  Man  and  the  wild  animals  alike 
find  their  chief  occupation  in  getting  food  or  in 
keeping  out  of  danger.  Change  plays  a  large 
part  in  the  life  of  each,  and  abnormal  conditions 
affect  them  both.  Let  a  great  snow  come  in 
early  winter,  and  both  will  have  trouble,  and 
both  for  a  time  may  find  the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence severe. 

The  primitive  man  slaughtered  storm-bound 
animals,  but  civilized  man  rescues  them.  A 
deep  snow  offers  a  good  opportunity  for  more 
intimate  acquaintance  with  our  wild  neighbors. 
And  snowy  times,  too,  are  good  picture-taking 
periods.  In  snowy  times,  if  our  wild  neighbors 
already  respect  us,  tempting  food  and  encour- 
aging hunger  will  place  big,  shy,  and  awkward 
country  fellows  and  nervous  birds  close  to  the 
camera  and  close  to  our  hearts. 


(my  Cfltpmuna  tatkte 


(ttty  <D§ipmun&  Cattm 

Oft  bout  a  score  of  chipmunks  have  their  homes 
\^y  in  my  yard.  They  are  delightfully  tame 
and  will  climb  upon  my  head  or  shoulder,  eat 
nuts  from  my  hand,  or  go  into  my  pockets  after 
them.  At  times  three  or  four  make  it  lively  for 
me.  One  day  I  stooped  to  give  one  some  pea- 
nuts. While  he  was  standing  erect  and  taking 
them  from  my  fingers,  a  strange  dog  appeared. 
At  once  all  the  chipmunks  in  the  yard  gave  a 
chattering,  scolding  alarm-cry  and  retreated  to 
their  holes.  The  one  I  was  feeding  dashed  up 
into  my  coat  pocket.  Standing  up  with  fore 
paws  on  the  edge  of  the  pocket,  and  with  head 
thrust  out,  he  gave  the  dog  a  tempestuous  scold- 
ing. This  same  chipmunk  often  played  upon 
the  back  of  Scotch,  my  collie.  Occasionally  he 
stood  erect  on  Scotch  to  sputter  out  an  alarm- 
cry  and  to  look  around  when  something  aroused 
his  suspicions. 

Chipmunks  are  easily  tamed  and  on  short 
277 


(Roc%  (Tftounfotn  Ttfotrterfonb 

acquaintance  will  come  to  eat  from  one's  hand. 
Often  they  come  into  my  cabin  for  food  or  for 
paper  to  use  for  bedding.  Occasionally  one  will 
sit  erect  upon  my  knee  or  shoulder,  sometimes 
looking  off  intently  into  the  yard ;  at  other  times 
apparently  seeing  nothing,  but  wrapped  in  medi- 
tation. More  often,  however,  they  are  storing 
peanuts  in  their  pouches  or  deliberately  eating  a 
kernel.  Rarely  is  the  presence  of  one  agreeable 
to  another,  and  when  four  or  five  happen  to  call 
at  the  same  time,  they  sometimes  forget  their 
etiquette  and  I  am  the  centre  of  a  chipmunk 
scrimmage. 

Once  five  callers  came,  each  stringing  in  be- 
hind another.  Just  as  the  fifth  came  in  the  door, 
there  was  a  dispute  among  the  others  and  one 
started  to  retreat.  Evidently  he  did  not  want 
to  go,  for  he  retreated  away  from  the  open  door. 
As  number  two  started  in  pursuit  of  him,  num- 
ber three  gave  chase  to  number  two.  After 
them  started  number  four,  and  the  fifth  one 
after  all  the  others.  The  first  one,  being  closely 
pressed  and  not  wanting  to  leave  the  room,  ran 
round  the  centre  table,  and  in  an  instant  all 

278 


ENTERTAIN' INC.   A   CHIPMUNK   CALL!  R 


five  were  racing  single  file  round  the  table.  After 
the  first  round  they  became  excited  and  each 
one  went  his  best.  The  circle  they  were  follow- 
ing was  not  large,  and  the  floor  was  smooth. 
Presently  the  rear  legs  of  one  skidded  comically, 
then  the  fore  feet  of  another;  and  now  and  then 
one  lost  his  footing  and  rolled  entirely  over,  then 
arose,  looking  surprised  and  foolish,  but  with  a 
leap  entered  the  circle  and  was  again  at  full  speed. 

I  enjoy  having  them  about,  and  spend  many 
a  happy  hour  watching  them  or  playing  with 
them.  They  often  make  a  picnic-ground  of  my 
porch,  and  now  and  then  one  lies  down  to  rest 
upon  one  of  the  log  seats,  where,  outstretched, 
with  head  up  and  one  fore  paw  extended  lei- 
surely upon  the  log,  he  looks  like  a  young  lion. 

Often  they  climb  up  and  scamper  over  the 
roof  of  my  cabin ;  but  most  of  their  time  on  the 
roof  is  spent  in  dressing  their  fur  or  enjoying 
long,  warm  sun  baths.  Frequently  they  mount 
the  roof  early  in  the  morning,  even  before  sun- 
rise. I  am  sometimes  awakened  at  early  dawn 
by  a  chipmunk  mob  that  is  having  a  lively  time 
upon  the  roof. 

279 


(Roc8j>  (mountain  T3?on*erfan& 

In  many  things  they  are  persistent.  Once  I 
closed  the  hole  that  one  had  made  in  a  place 
where  I  did  not  want  it.  I  filled  the  hole  full  of 
earth.  Inside  of  two  hours  it  was  reopened. 
Then  I  pounded  it  full  of  gravel,  but  this  was 
dug  out.  I  drove  a  stake  into  the  hole.  A  new 
hole  was  promptly  made  alongside  the  stake. 
I  poured  this  full  of  water.  Presently  out  came 
a  wet  and  angry  chipmunk.  This  daily  drowning 
out  by  water  was  continued  for  more  than  a 
week  before  the  chipmunk  gave  it  up  and  opened 
a  hole  about  thirty  feet  distant. 

For  eight  years  I  kept  track  of  a  chipmunk 
by  my  cabin.  She  lived  in  a  long,  crooked  under- 
ground hole,  or  tunnel,  which  must  have  had  a 
total  length  of  nearly  one  hundred  feet.  It  ex- 
tended in  a  semicircle  and  could  be  entered  at 
three  or  four  places  through  holes  that  opened 
upon  the  surface.  Each  of  these  entrance  holes 
was  partly  concealed  in  a  clump  of  grass  by  a 
cluster  of  plants  or  a  shrub. 

I  have  many  times  examined  the  under- 
ground works  of  the  chipmunk.  Some  of  these 
examinations  were  made  by  digging,  and  others 

280 


(m?  Cgtpmunft  Catttte 

I  traced  as  they  were  exposed  in  the  making  of 
large  irrigation  ditches.  The  earth  which  is  dug 
from  these  tunnels  is  ejected  from  one  or  more 
holes,  which  are  closed  when  the  tunnel  is  com- 
pleted. Around  the  entrance  holes  there  is  noth- 
ing to  indicate  or  to  publish  their  presence;  and 
often  they  are  well  concealed. 

These  tunnels  are  from  forty  to  one  hundred 
feet  long,  run  from  two  to  four  feet  beneath 
the  surface,  and  have  two  or  more  entrances. 
Here  and  there  is  a  niche  or  pocket  in  the  side 
of  the  tunnel.  These  niches  are  from  a  few 
inches  to  a  foot  in  diameter  and  in  height.  In 
one  or  more  of  these  the  chipmunk  sleeps,  and 
in  others  is  stored  his  winter  food-supply.  He 
uses  one  of  these  pockets  for  a  time  as  a  sleeping- 
place,  then  changes  to  another.  This  change 
may  enable  the  chipmunk  to  hold  parasites  in 
check.  The  fact  that  he  has  a  number  of  sleep- 
ing-places and  also  that  in  summer  he  frequently 
changes  his  bedding,  indicates  that  these  efforts 
in  sanitation  are  essential  for  avoiding  parasites 
and  disease. 

Commonly  the  bedding  is  grass,  straw,  and 
281 


leaves;  but  in  my  yard  the  chipmunks  eagerly 
seize  upon  a  piece  of  paper  or  a  handkerchief. 
I  am  compelled  to  keep  my  eyes  open  when- 
ever they  come  into  the  cabin,  for  they  do  not 
hesitate  to  seize  upon  unanswered  letters  or 
incomplete  manuscripts.  In  carrying  off  paper 
the  chipmunk  commonly  tears  off  a  huge  piece, 
crumples  it  into  a  wad,  and,  with  this  sticking 
from  his  mouth,  hurries  away  to  his  bedcham- 
ber. It  is  not  uncommon  to  see  half  a  dozen  at 
once  in  the  yard,  each  going  his  own  way  with 
his  clean  bed-linen. 

Chipmunks  take  frequent  dust  and  sun  baths, 
but  I  have  never  seen  one  bathe  in  water.  They 
appear,  however,  to  drink  water  freely.  One 
will  sip  water  several  times  daily. 

In  the  mountains  near  me  the  chipmunks 
spend  from  four  to  seven  months  of  each  year 
underground.  I  am  at  an  altitude  of  nine  thou- 
sand feet.  Although  during  the  winter  they 
indulge  in  long  periods  of  what  may  be  called 
hibernating  sleep,  they  are  awake  a  part  of  the 
time  and  commonly  lay  in  abundant  stores  for 
winter.    In  the  underground  granaries  of  one 

282 


(flip  <C0tpmuna  tatfae 

I  once  found  about  a  peck  and  a  half  of  weed 
seeds.  Even  during  the  summer  the  chipmunk 
occasionally  does  not  come  forth  for  a  day  or 
two.  On  some  of  these  occasions  I  have  found 
that  they  were  in  a  heavy  sleep  in  their  beds. 

These  in  my  yard  are  fed  so  freely  upon  pea- 
nuts that  they  have  come  to  depend  upon  them 
for  winter  supplies.  They  prefer  raw  to  roasted 
peanuts.  The  chipmunk  near  my  cabin  some- 
times becomes  a  little  particular  and  will  occa- 
sionally reject  peanuts  that  are  handed  to  her 
with  the  shell  on.  Commonly,  however,  she 
grabs  the  nut  with  both  fore  paws,  then,  stand- 
ing erect,  rapidly  bites  away  the  shell  until  the 
nut  is  reached.  This  she  usually  forces  into  her 
cheek  pocket  with  both  hands.  Her  cheek 
pouches  hold  from  twelve  to  twenty  of  these. 
As  soon  as  these  are  filled  she  hurries  away  to 
deposit  her  stores  in  her  underground  granary. 
One  day  she  managed  to  store  twenty-two,  and 
her  cheek  pouches  stood  out  abnormally!  With 
this  "swelled"  and  uncouth  head  she  hurried 
away  to  deposit  the  nuts  in  her  storehouse,  but 
when  she  reached  the  hole  her  cheeks  were  so 

283 


(Roc%  Qftounfam  TQ?onbetrfon*> 

distended  that  she  was  unable  to  enter.  After 
trying  again  and  again  she  began  to  enlarge  the 
hole.  This  she  presently  gave  up.  Then  she  re- 
jected about  one  third  of  the  nuts,  entered,  and 
stored  the  remainder.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was 
back  for  more.  One  day  she  made  eleven  round 
trips  in  fifty-seven  minutes.  Early  one  autumn 
morning  a  coyote,  in  attempting  to  reach  her, 
dug  into  her  granary  and  scattered  the  nuts 
about.  After  sending  him  off  I  gathered  up 
three  quarts  of  shelled  nuts  and  left  about  as 
many  more  scattered  through  the  earth!  Over 
these  the  jays  and  magpies  squabbled  all  day. 

One  day  a  lady  who  was  unsympathetic  with 
chipmunks  was  startled  by  one  of  the  young- 
sters, who  scrambled  up  her  clothes  and  perched 
upon  her  head.  Greatly  excited,  she  gave  wild 
screams.  The  young  chipmunk  was  in  turn 
frightened,  and  fled  in  haste.  He  took  consola- 
tion with  his  mother  several  yards  away.  She, 
standing  erect,  received  him  literally  with  open 
arms.  He  stood  erect  with  one  arm  upon  her 
shoulder,  while  she  held  one  arm  around  him. 
They  thus  stood  for  some  seconds,  he  screech- 

284 


(flip  CfltpmunR  CaUtte 

ing  a  frightened  cry,  while  she,  with  a  subdued 
muttering,  endeavored  to  quiet  him. 

Once,  my  old  chipmunk,  seeing  me  across  the 
yard,  came  bounding  to  me.  Forgetting,  in  her 
haste,  to  be  vigilant,  she  ran  into  a  family  of 
weasels,  two  old  and  five  young  ones,  who  were 
crossing  the  yard.  Instantly,  and  with  lion-like 
ferocity,  the  largest  weasel  leaped  and  seized  the 
chipmunk  by  the  throat.  With  a  fiendish  jerk 
of  his  head  the  weasel  landed  the  chipmunk 
across  his  shoulders  and,  still  holding  it  by  the 
throat,  he  forced  his  way,  half  swimming,  half 
floundering,  through  a  swift  brook  which  crossed 
the  yard.  His  entire  family  followed  him.  Most 
savagely  did  he  resent  my  interference  when  I 
compelled  him  to  drop  the  dead  chipmunk. 

The  wise  coyote  has  a  peculiar  habit  each 
autumn  of  feasting  upon  chipmunks.  Com- 
monly the  chipmunks  retire  for  the  winter  be- 
fore the  earth  is  frozen,  or  before  it  is  frozen 
deeply.  Apparently  they  at  once  sink  into  a 
hibernating  sleep.  Each  autumn,  shortly  after 
the  chipmunks  retire,  the  coyotes  raid  all  local- 
ities in  my  neighborhood  in  which  digging  is 

285 


good.  Scores  of  chipmunks  are  dug  out  and  de- 
voured. Within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  my  cabin 
one  October  night  forty-two  holes  were  dug. 
Another  night  fifty-four  holes  were  dug  near 
by.  In  a  number  of  these  a  few  scattered  drops 
of  blood  showed  that  the  coyote  had  made  a 
capture.  In  one  week  within  a  few  miles  of  my 
cabin  I  found  several  hundred  freshly  dug  holes. 
Many  holes  were  dug  directly  down  to  the  gran- 
ary where  the  stores  were  scattered  about;  and 
others  descended  upon  the  pocket  in  which  the 
chipmunk  was  asleep.  In  a  few  places  the  dig- 
ging followed  along  the  tunnel  for  several  yards, 
and  in  others  the  coyote  dug  down  into  the 
earth  and  then  tunneled  along  the  chipmunk's 
tunnel  for  several  feet  before  reaching  the  little 
sleeper. 

So  far  as  I  know,  each  old  chipmunk  lives  by 
itself.  It  is,  I  think,  rare  for  one  to  enter  the 
underground  works  of  another.  Each  appears 
to  have  a  small  local  range  upon  the  surface, 
but  this  range  is  occasionally  invaded  by  a 
neighboring  chipmunk.  This  invasion  is  always 
resented,    and    often    the    invader    is    angrily 


(Nip  <C0tptmm6  tattete 

ejected  by  the  local  claimant  of  the  terri- 
tory. 

In  my  locality  the  young  are  born  during  the 
first  week  in  June.  The  five  years  that  I  kept 
track  of  the  mother  chipmunk  near  my  cabin, 
she  usually  brought  the  youngsters  out  into 
the  sunlight  about  the  middle  of  June.  Three 
of  these  years  there  were  five  youngsters.  One 
year  the  number  was  four,  and  another  year  it 
was  six.  About  the  middle  of  July  the  young 
were  left  to  fight  the  battle  of  life  alone.  They 
were  left  in  possession  of  the  underground  house 
in  which  they  were  born,  and  the  mother  went 
to  another  part  of  the  yard,  renovated  another 
underground  home,  and  here  laid  up  supplies 
for  the  winter. 

A  few  days  before  the  mother  leaves  the 
youngsters,  they  run  about  and  find  most  of 
their  food.  One  year,  a  day  or  two  before  the 
one  by  my  cabin  bade  her  children  good-bye, 
she  brought  them  —  or,  at  any  rate,  the  children 
came  with  her  —  to  the  place  where  we  often 
distributed  peanuts.  The  youngsters,  much 
lighter  in  color,  and  less  distinctly  marked  than 

287 


(Roc8p  (Wounfotn  TDoritex fan* 

the  mother,  as  well  as  much  smaller,  were  amus- 
ingly shy,  and  they  made  comic  shows  in  trying 
to  eat  peanuts.  They  could  not  break  through 
the  shell.  If  offered  a  shelled  nut,  they  were  as 
likely  to  bite  the  end  of  your  finger  as  the  nut. 
They  had  not  learned  which  was  which.  With 
their  baby  teeth  they  could  eat  but  little  of  the 
nut,  but  they  had  the  storing  instinct  and  after 
a  struggle  managed  to  thrust  one  or  two  of  the 
nuts  into  their  cheek  pockets. 

The  youngsters,  on  being  left  to  shift  for 
themselves,  linger  about  their  old  home  for  a 
week  or  longer,  then  scatter,  each  apparently 
going  off  to  make  an  underground  home  for 
himself.  The  house  may  be  entirely  new  or  it 
may  be  an  old  one  renovated. 

I  do  not  know  just  when  the  mother  returns 
to  her  old  home.  Possibly  the  new  home  is 
closely  connected  with  the  one  she  has  tempo- 
rarily left,  and  it  may  be  that  during  the  au- 
tumn or  the  early  spring  she  digs  a  short  tunnel 
which  unites  them.  The  manner  of  this  aside, 
I  can  say  that  each  summer  the  mother  that  I 
watched,  on  retiring  from  the  youngsters,  car- 

288 


(flip  <C0tpmuna  Catttte 

ried  supplies  into  a  hole  which  she  had  not  used 
before,  and  the  following  spring  the  youngsters 
came  forth  from  the  same  hole,  and  presum- 
ably from  the  same  quarters,  that  the  children 
of  preceding  years  had  used. 

Chipmunks  feed  upon  a  variety  of  plants. 
The  leaves,  seeds,  and  roots  are  eaten.  During 
bloom  time  they  feast  upon  wild  flowers.  Often 
they  make  a  dainty  meal  off  the  blossoms  of 
the  fringed  blue  gentian,  the  mariposa  lily,  and 
the  harebell.  Commonly,  in  gathering  flowers, 
the  chipmunk  stands  erect  on  hind  feet,  reaches 
up  with  one  or  both  hands,  bends  down  the 
stalk,  leisurely  eats  the  blossoms,  and  then  pulls 
down  another.  The  big  chipmunk,  however,  has 
some  gross  food  habits.  I  have  seen  him  eating 
mice,  and  he  often  catches  grasshoppers  and 
flies.  It  is  possible  that  he  may  rob  birds'  nests, 
but  this  is  not  common  and  I  have  never  seen 
him  do  so.  However,  the  bluebirds,  robins,  and 
red-winged  blackbirds  near  me  resent  his  close 
approach.  A  chipmunk  which  has  unwittingly 
climbed  into  a  tree  or  traveled  into  a  territory 
close  to  the  nest  of  one  of  these  birds  receives 

289 


(Rocfy)  (THounfoin  Tfronbetrfanb 

a  beating  from  the  wings  of  the  birds  and  many 
stabs  from  their  bills  before  he  can  retreat  to  a 
peaceful  zone.  Many  times  I  have  seen  birds 
battering  him,  sometimes  repeatedly  knocking 
him  heels  over  head,  while  he,  frightened  and 
chattering,  was  doing  his  best  to  escape. 

There  are  five  species  of  chipmunks  in  Colo- 
rado. Two  of  these  are  near  me,  —  the  big  chip- 
munk and  the  busy  chipmunk.  The  latter  is 
much  smaller,  shyer,  and  more  lively  than  the 
former  and  spends  a  part  of  its  time  in  the  tree- 
tops  ;  while  the  big,  although  it  sometimes  climbs, 
commonly  keeps  close  to  the  earth. 

Among  their  numerous  enemies  are  coyotes, 
wild-cats,  mountain  lions,  bears,  hawks,  and 
owls.  They  appear  to  live  from  six  to  twelve 
years.  The  one  near  my  place  I  watched  for 
eight  years.  She  probably  was  one  or  more 
years  of  age  when  I  first  saw  her. 

Almost  every  day  in  summer  a  number  of 
children  come,  some  of  them  for  miles,  to  watch 
and  to  feed  my  chipmunks.  The  children  enjoy 
this  as  keenly  as  I  have  ever  seen  them  enjoy 
anything.   Surely  the  kindly  sympathies  which 

290 


(flip  CfltpmunG  Cofferer 

are  thus  aroused  in  the  children,  and  the  de- 
lightful lesson  in  natural  history  which  they 
get,  will  give  a  helpful  educational  stimulus,  and 
may  be  the  beginning  of  a  sympathetic  interest 
in  every  living  thing. 


($  $eaft  6g  f^e  (pfctin* 


®  qpea^  6y  $e  (pemn0 


(P 


|IKe's  Peak  rises  boldly  from  the  plains,  go- 
ing steeply  up  into  the  sky  a  vertical  mile 
and  a  half.  There  is  no  middle  distance  or  fore- 
ground; no  terraced  or  inclined  approach.  A 
spectator  may  thus  stand  close  to  its  foot,  at 
an  altitude  of  six  thousand  feet,  and  have  a 
commanding  view  of  the  eight  thousand  feet  of 
slopes  and  terraces  which  culminate  in  the  sum- 
mit, 14,110  feet  above  the  sea.  Its  steep,  abrupt 
ascent  makes  it  imposing  and  impressive.  It 
fronts  the  wide  plains  a  vast  broken  tower. 
The  typical  high  peak  stands  with  other  high 
peaks  in  the  summit  of  a  mountain-range.  Miles 
of  lesser  mountains  lie  between  its  summit  and 
the  lowlands.  Foothills  rise  from  the  edge  of 
the  lowland;  above  these,  broken  benches,  ter- 
race beyond  terrace,  each  rising  higher  until 
the  summit  rises  supreme.  With  Pike's  Peak 
this  typical  arrangement  is  reversed. 

Pike's  Peak  probably  is  the  most  intimately 

295 


Q$oc%>  (mountain  1(?otrt>ttf<mb 

known  high  mountain.  It  has  given  mountain- 
top  pleasure  to  more  people  than  any  other 
fourteen  thousand  foot  summit  of  the  earth. 
One  million  persons  have  walked  upon  its  sum- 
mit, and  probably  two  million  others  have 
climbed  well  up  its  slopes.  Only  a  few  thousand 
climbers  have  reached  the  top  of  Mont  Blanc. 
Pike's  is  a  peak  for  the  multitude. 

Climbing  it  is  comparatively  easy.  It  stands 
in  a  mild,  arid  climate,  and  has  scanty  snowfall ; 
there  are  but  few  precipitous  walls,  no  danger- 
ous ice-fields;  and  up  most  of  its  slopes  any  one 
may  ramble.  One  may  go  up  on  foot,  on  horse- 
back, in  a  carriage,  or  by  railroad,  or  even  by 
automobile.  It  is  not  only  easy  of  ascent,  but 
also  easy  of  access.  It  is  on  the  edge  of  the  plains, 
and  a  number  of  railroads  cross  its  very  foot. 

This  peak  affords  a  unique  view,  —  wide 
plains  to  the  east,  high  peaks  to  the  west.  Sixty 
thousand  or  more  square  miles  are  visible  from 
the  summit.  It  towers  far  above  the  plains, 
whose  streams,  hills,  and  level  spaces  stretch 
away  a  vast  flat  picture.  To  the  west  it  com- 
mands a  wondrous  array  of  mountain  topog- 

296 


raphy,  —  a  two-hundred-mile  front  of  shat- 
tered, snow-drifted  peaks. 

The  peak  is  an  enormous  broken  pyramid, 
dotted  with  high-perched  lakes,  cut  with  plung- 
ing streams,  broken  by  canons,  skirted  with 
torn  forests,  old  and  young,  and  in  addition 
is  beautiful  with  bushes,  meadows,  and  wild 
flowers.  The  major  part  of  the  peak's  primeval 
forest  robe  was  destroyed  by  fire  a  half-century 
ago.  Many  ragged,  crag-torn  areas  of  the  old 
forest,  of  a  square  mile  or  less,  are  connected 
with  young  growths  from  thirty  to  sixty  years 
old.  Much  of  this  new  growth  is  aspen.  From 
the  tree-studies  which  I  have  made,  I  learn 
that  two  forest  fires  caused  most  of  the  destruc- 
tion. The  annual  rings  in  the  young  growth, 
together  with  the  rings  in  the  fire-scarred  trees 
which  did  not  perish,  indicate  that  the  older 
and  more  extensive  of  these  fires  wrapped  most 
of  the  peak  in  flames  and  all  of  it  in  smoke  dur- 
ing the  autumn  of  1850.  The  other  fire  was  in 
1880. 

Pike's  Peak  exhibits  a  number  of  scenic  at- 
tractions and  is  bordered  by  other  excellent  ones. 

297 


(Roclfy  (tttounfain  TUon^rfanb 

Near  are  the  Royal  Gorge,  Cripple  Creek,  and 
the  fossil-beds  at  Florissant.  The  Garden  of  the 
Gods,  Manitou  Mineral  Springs,  Glen  Eyrie, 
Crystal  Park,  the  Cave  of  the  Winds,  and  Wil- 
liams, Ruxton,  and  South  Cheyenne  Canons 
are  some  of  its  attractions. 

The  fossil-beds  at  Florissant  are  one  of  the 
most  famous  of  fossil-deposits.  Here  was  an  old 
Tertiary  lake-basin.  In  the  deposit  which  filled 
it — a  deposit  of  fine  volcanic  sand  or  ash,  sedi- 
ment, and  other  debris  —  is  a  wonderful  array 
of  fossilized  plants  and  insects  of  a  past  age. 
All  are  strangely  preserved  for  us  in  stone.  A 
part  of  the  lake  appears  to  have  been  filled  by 
a  volcanic  catastrophe  which  overwhelmed  ani- 
mals, plants,  and  insects.  Whole  and  in  frag- 
ments, they  are  lying  where  they  fell.  Here  have 
been  found  upwards  of  one  hundred  recogniz- 
able plants,  eleven  vertebrate  animals,  and  a 
few  hundred  insects.  Among  the  fossil  trees 
are  the  narrow-leaf  cottonwood,  the  ginkgo, 
the  magnolia,  the  incense  cedar,  and  the  giant 
redwood.  Water  erosion  through  the  ages  has 
cut  deeply  into  these  fossil-beds  and  worn  and 

298 


washed  away  their  treasures.  This  deposit  has 
been  but  little  studied.  But  what  it  has  yielded, 
together  with  the  magnitude  of  the  unexamined 
remainder,  makes  one  eager  concerning  the  ex- 
tent and  the  nature  of  the  treasures  which  still 
lie  buried  in  it. 

Helen  Hunt,  whose  books  helped  awaken  the 
American  people  to  the  injustice  done  the  In- 
dian and  to  an  appreciation  of  the  scenic  gran- 
deur of  the  West,  lived  for  many  years  at  the 
foot  of  this  peak.  Much  of  her  writing  was  done 
from  commanding  points  on  the  peak.  She  was 
temporarily  buried  on  Cheyenne  Mountain,  and 
on  her  former  grave  has  accumulated  a  large 
cairn  of  stones,  contributed  singly  by  apprecia- 
tive pilgrims. 

South  Cheyenne  Canon,  like  Yosemite,  gives 
a  large,  clear,  and  pleasing  picture  to  the  mind. 
This  is  due  to  the  individuality  and  the  artistic 
grouping  of  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the 
canon.  The  canon  is  so  narrow,  and  its  high 
walls  so  precipitous,  that  it  could  justly  be  called 
an  enormous  cleft.  At  one  point  the  walls  are 
only  forty  feet  apart ;  between  these  a  road  and 

299 


$oc%  (mountain  7£ont»<srfanb 

a  swift,  clear  stream  are  crowded.  Inside  the 
entrance  stand  the  two  "Pillars  of  Hercules." 
These  magnificent  rock  domes  rise  nearly  one 
thousand  feet,  and  their  steep,  tree-dotted  walls 
are  peculiarly  pleasing  and  impressive.  Pros- 
pect Dome  is  another  striking  rock  point  in 
this  canon.  The  canon  ends  in  a  colossal  cirque, 
or  amphitheatre,  about  two  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  deep.  Down  one  side  of  this  a  stream  makes 
its  seven  white  zigzag  jumps. 

Pike's  Peak  wins  impressiveness  by  standing 
by  itself.  Cheyenne  Canon  is  more  imposing  by 
being  alone,  —  away  from  other  canons.  This 
canon  opens  upon  the  plains.  It  is  a  canon  that 
would  win  attention  anywhere,  but  its  situation 
is  a  most  favorable  one.  Low  altitude  and  a 
warm  climate  welcome  trees,  grass,  bushes,  and 
many  kinds  of  plants  and  flowers.  These  cling 
to  every  break,  spot,  ledge,  terrace,  and  niche, 
and  thereby  touch  and  decorate  the  canon's 
grim  and  towering  walls  with  lovely  beauty. 
Walls,  water,  and  verdure  —  water  in  pools  and 
falls,  rocks  in  cliffs,  terraces,  and  domes,  grass 
and  flowers  on  slopes  and  terraces,  trees  and 

300 


(g  (peaft  6p  $t  (pfatne 

groves,  —  a  magnificence  of  rocks,  a  richness  of 
verdure,  and  the  charm  of  running  water  — 
all  unite  in  a  picturesque  association  which 
makes  a  glorious  and  pleasing  sunken  garden. 

It  is  probable  that  Pike's  Peak  was  discov- 
ered by  Spanish  explorers  either  in  1598  or  in 
1601.  These  are  the  dates  of  separate  exploring 
expeditions  which  entered  Colorado  from  the 
south  and  marched  up  the  plains  in  near  view 
of  this  peak.  The  discovery  is  usually  accred- 
ited, however,  to  Lieutenant  Pike,  who  caught 
sight  of  it  on  the  15th  day  of  November,  1806. 
Pike's  journal  of  this  date  says:  "At  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  I  thought  I  could  distinguish 
a  mountain  to  our  right  which  appeared  like  a 
small  blue  cloud;  viewed  it  with  a  spyglass  and 
was  still  more  confirmed  in  my  conjecture.  .  .  . 
In  half  an  hour  it  appeared  in  full  view  before  us. 
When  our  small  party  arrived  on  a  hill,  they 
with  one  accord  gave  three  cheers  to  the  Mexi- 
can Mountains."  It  appears  not  to  have  been 
called  Pike's  Peak  until  about  twenty-five  years 
after  Pike  first  saw  it.  He  spoke  of  it  as  the 
Mexican  Mountains  and  as  Great  Peak.    The 

301 


(RocGg  (ttlounfoin  Tftonberfanb 

first  ascent  by  white  men  was  made  July  14, 
1 8 19,  by  members  of  Lieutenant  Long's  explor- 
ing expedition.  For  a  number  of  years  this 
peak  was  called  James  Peak,  in  honor  of  the 
naturalist  in  the  Long  exploring  party. 

Pike's  Peak  has  what  Montesquieu  calls  the 
"most  powerful  of  all  empires,  the  empire  of 
climate."  It  stands  most  of  the  time  in  the  sun. 
All  over  it  the  miner  and  the  prospector  have 
searched  for  gold,  mutilating  it  here  and  there 
with  holes.  Fires  have  scarred  the  sides,  and 
pasturing  has  robbed  it  of  flowers  and  verdure. 
The  reputed  discovery  of  gold  at  its  base  started 
a  flood  of  gold-seekers  west  with  "Pike's  Peak 
or  bust "  enthusiasm.  But  the  climate  and  scen- 
ery of  this  peak  attract  people  who  come  for 
pleasure  and  to  seek  for  health.  It  has  thus 
brought  millions  of  dollars  into  Colorado,  and 
it  will  probably  continue  to  attract  people  who 
seek  pleasure  and  refreshment  and  who  receive 
in  exchange  higher  values  than  they  spend. 
Pike's  Peak  is  a  rich  asset. 

The  summit  of  Pike's  Peak  is  an  excellent 
place  to  study  the  effect  of  altitude  upon  low- 

302 


land  visitors.  Individual  observations  and  the 
special  investigations  of  scientific  men  show 
that  altitude  has  been  a  large,  unconscious 
source  of  nature-faking.  During  the  summer 
of  191 1  a  number  of  English  and  American 
scientists,  the  "Anglo-American  Expedition," 
spent  five  weeks  on  Pike's  Peak,  making  spe- 
cial studies  of  the  effects  of  altitude.  Their  in- 
vestigations explode  the  theory  that  altitude 
is  a  strain  upon  the  heart,  or  injurious  to  the 
system.  These  men  concluded  that  the  heart  is 
subjected  to  no  greater  strain  in  high  altitudes 
than  at  sea-level,  except  under  the  strain  of 
physical  exertion.  The  blood  is  richer  in  high 
altitudes.  For  every  hundred  red  corpuscles 
found  at  sea-level  there  are  in  Colorado  Springs, 
at  six  thousand  feet,  one  hundred  and  ten;  and 
on  the  summit  of  Pike's  Peak,  from  one  hundred 
and  forty  to  one  hundred  and  fifty-four. 

"The  danger  to  people  suffering  from  heart 
trouble  coming  into  high  altitudes  is  grossly  ex- 
aggerated," says  Dr.  Edward  C.  Schneider,  one 
of  the  Anglo-American  expedition.  "The  rate 
of  circulation  is  not  materially  increased.   The 

303 


(Roc%>  (mountain  Tt>ontor(<m*> 

blood-pressure  on  the  Peak  is  not  increased;  it 
is  even  lowered.  The  heart  —  if  a  person  exer- 
cises —  may  beat  a  little  faster  but  it  does  not 
pump  any  more  blood.  The  pulse  is  a  little  more 
rapid.  If  a  man  suffering  from  heart  trouble 
rode  up  the  peak  on  a  train,  remained  in  his 
seat,  and  did  not  exert  himself  physically,  his 
heart  would  not  beat  a  bit  faster  at  the  summit 
than  when  he  left  Manitou.  But  if  he  walked 
about  on  the  summit  there  would  be  a  change, 
for  the  exercise  would  make  the  heart  work 
harder."  But  exercise  is  not  injurious;  it  is  bene- 
ficial. 

As  I  found  in  guiding  on  Long's  Peak,  the 
rarefied  air  of  the  heights  was  often  stimulating, 
especially  to  the  tongue.  Rarefied  air  is  likened 
by  the  scientists  to  "laughing-gas"  and  fur- 
nishes a  plausible  explanation  of  the  queerness 
which  characterizes  the  action  of  many  people 
on  mountain-summits.  "We  saw  many  visitors 
at  the  summit,"  said  Dr.  Schneider  in  explain- 
ing this  phase,  "who  appeared  to  be  intoxicated. 
But  there  was  no  smell  of  liquor  on  their  breath. 
They  were  intoxicated  with  rarefied  atmosphere, 

3°4 


not  with  alcohol.  The  peculiar  effects  of  laugh- 
ing-gas and  carbon-monoxide  gas  on  people  are 
due  to  the  lack  of  oxygen  in  the  gas;  and  the 
same  applies  to  the  air  at  high  altitudes." 

The  summit  of  Pike's  Peak  is  roomy  and  com- 
paratively level,  and  is  composed  of  broken 
granite,  many  of  the  pieces  being  of  large  size. 
A  stone  house  stands  upon  the  top.  In  this 
for  many  years  was  a  government  weather- 
observer.  A  weather  station  has  just  been  re- 
established on  its  summit.  This  will  be  one  of 
a  line  of  high  weather  stations  extending  across 
the  continent.  This  unique  station  should  con- 
tribute continuously  to  the  weather  news  and 
steadily  add  to  the  sum  of  climatic  knowledge. 

This  one  peak  has  on  its  high  and  broken 
slopes  a  majority  of  the  earth's  climatic  zones, 
and  a  numerous  array  of  the  earth's  countless 
kinds  of  plant  and  animal  life.  One  may  in  two 
hours  go  from  base  to  summit  and  pass  through 
as  many  life  zones  as  though  he  had  traveled 
northward  into  the  Arctic  Circle.  Going  from 
base  to  summit,  one  would  start  in  the  Upper 
Sonoran    Zone,    pass   through    the   Transition, 

305 


(Rocfy>  (piounfain  TDonberfanb 

Canadian,  and  Hudsonian  Zones,  and  enter  the 
Arctic-Alpine  Zone.  The  peak  has  a  number  of 
places  which  exhibit  the  complexity  of  climatic 
zones.  In  a  deep  canon  near  Minnehaha  Falls, 
two  zones  may  be  seen  side  by  side  on  opposite 
sides  of  a  deep,  narrow  canon.  The  north  side 
of  the  canon,  exposed  to  the  sun,  has  such  plants 
as  are  found  in  the  Transition  Zone,  while  the 
cool  south  side  has  an  Hudsonian  flora.  Here  is 
almost  an  actual  contact  of  two  zones  that  out- 
side the  mountains  are  separated  by  approxi- 
mately two  thousand  miles. 

The  varied  climate  of  this  peak  makes  a 
large  appeal  to  bird-life.  Upward  of  one  hun- 
dred species  are  found  here.  People  from  every 
part  of  the  Union  are  here  often  startled  by 
the  presence  of  birds  which  they  thought  were 
far  away  at  home.  At  the  base  the  melodious 
meadowlark  sings;  along  the  streams  on  the 
middle  slopes  lives  the  contented  water-ouzel. 
Upon  the  heights  are  the  ptarmigan  and  the 
rosy  finch.  Often  the  golden  eagle  casts  his 
shadow  upon  all  these  scenes.  The  robin  is  here, 
and  also  the  bluebird,  bluer,  too,  than  you  have 

306 


®  #w8  6p  $t  (ptaine 

ever  seen  him.  The  Western  evening  grosbeak, 
a  bird  with  attractive  plumage  and  pleasing 
manners,  often  winters  here.  The  brilliant  lazuli 
bunting,  the  Bullock  oriole,  the  red-shafted 
flicker,  and  the  dear  and  dainty  goldfinch  are 
present  in  summer,  along  with  mockingbirds, 
wrens,  tanagers,  thrushes,  and  scores  of  other 
visitants. 

A  few  migratory  species  winter  about  the 
foot  of  the  peak.  In  summer  they  fly  to  the 
upper  slopes  and  nest  and  raise  their  young 
in  the  miniature  arctic  prairies  of  the  heights. 
With  the  coming  of  autumn  all  descend  by  easy 
stages  to  the  foot.  The  full  distance  of  this  ver- 
tical migration  could  be  covered  in  an  hour's 
flight.  Many  of  the  north-and-south-migrating 
birds  travel  a  thousand  times  as  far  as  these 
birds  of  vertical  migration. 

The  big  game  which  formerly  ranged  this 
peak  included  buffalo,  deer,  elk,  mountain  sheep, 
the  grizzly,  the  black  bear,  the  mountain  lion, 
the  fox,  the  coyote,  and  the  wolf.  Along  the 
descending  streams,  through  one  vertical  mile 
of  altitude,  were  beaver  colonies,  terrace  upon 

307 


terrace.  No  one  knows  how  many  varieties  of 
wild  flowers  each  year  bloom  in  all  the  Peak's 
various  ragged  zones,  but  there  are  probably 
no  fewer  than  two  thousand.  Along  with  these 
are  a  number  of  species  of  trees.  Covering  the 
lower  part  of  the  mountain  are  growths  of  Cot- 
tonwood, Douglas  spruce,  yellow  pine,  white 
fir,  silver  spruce,  and  the  Rocky  Mountain  birch. 
Among  the  flowering  plants  are  the  columbine, 
shooting-star,  monkshood,  yucca  or  Spanish 
bayonet,  and  iris.  Ascending,  one  finds  the  win- 
tergreen,  a  number  of  varieties  of  polemonium-, 
the  paintbrush,  the  Northern  gentian,  the  West- 
ern yarrow,  and  the  mertensia.  At  timber-line, 
at  the  altitude  of  about  eleven  thousand  five 
hundred  feet,  are  Engelmann  spruce,  arctic 
willow,  mountain  birch,  foxtail  pine,  and  aspen. 
At  timber-line,  too,  are  the  columbine,  the 
paintbrush,  and  a  number  of  species  of  phlox. 
There  are  no  trees  in  the  zone  which  drapes  the 
uppermost  two  thousand  feet  of  the  summit, 
but  in  this  are  bright  flowers,  —  cushion  pinks, 
the  spring  beauty,  the  alpine  gentian,  the  moun- 
tain buckwheat,  the  white  and  yellow  mountain 

308 


avens,  the  arctic  harebell,  the  marsh-marigold, 
the  stonecrop,  and  the  forget-me-not.  One  sum- 
mer I  found  a  few  flowers  on  the  summit. 

Isolation  probably  rendered  the  summit  of 
this  peak  less  favorable  for  snow-accumulation 
during  the  Ice  Age  than  the  summits  of  un- 
isolated  peaks  of  equal  altitude.  During  the  last 
ice  epoch,  however,  it  carried  glaciers,  and  some 
of  these  extended  down  the  slopes  three  miles 
or  farther.  These  degraded  the  upper  slopes, 
moved  this  excavated  material  toward  the  bot- 
tom, and  spread  it  in  a  number  of  places.  There 
are  five  distinct  cuplike  hollows  or  depressions 
in  this  peak  that  were  gouged  by  glaciers.  The 
one  lying  between  Cameron's  Cone  and  the  sum- 
mit is  known  as  the  "  Crater."  A  part  of  this  is 
readily  seen  from  Colorado  Springs.  Far  up  the 
slopes  are  Lake  Moraine  and  Seven  Lakes,  all  of 
glacial  origin. 

The  mountain  mass  which  culminates  in 
Pike's  Peak  probably  originated  as  a  vast  up- 
lift. Internal  forces  appear  to  have  severed  this 
mass  from  its  surroundings  and  slowly  upraised 
it  seven  thousand  or  more  feet.    The  slow  up- 

309 


(£ocfy>  QHounfain  ItJonbettanfc 

rising  probably  ended  thousands  of  years  ago. 
Since  that  time,  disintegration,  frost,  air,  and 
stream  erosion  have  combined  to  sculpture  this 
great  peak.  Pike's  Peak  might  well  be  made  a 
National  Park. 


Tt$t  Conmyyxtion  of  ^cenerg 


Z§t  Cott0emfton  of 

^Hhe  comparative  merits  of  the  Alps  and  the 
^^  Rocky  Mountains  for  recreation  purposes 
are  frequently  discussed.  Roosevelt  and  others 
have  spoken  of  the  Colorado  Rockies  as  "The 
Nation's  Playground."  This  Colorado  region 
really  is  one  vast  natural  park.  The  area  of  it 
is  three  times  that  of  the  Alps.  The  scenery  of 
these  Colorado  Rocky  Mountains,  though  un- 
like that  of  the  Alps,  is  equally  attractive  and 
more  varied.  Being  almost  free  from  snow,  the 
entire  region  is  easily  enjoyed;  a  novice  may 
scale  the  peaks  without  the  ice  and  snow  that 
hamper  and  endanger  even  the  expert  climbers 
in  the  icy  Alps.  The  Alps  wear  a  perpetual  ice- 
cap down  to  nine  thousand  feet.  The  inhabited 
zone  in  Colorado  is  seven  thousand  feet  higher 
than  that  zone  in  Switzerland.  At  ten  thou- 
sand feet  and  even  higher,  in  Colorado,  one  finds 

313 


(Koc8g  (mountain  Ttfonbttfonb 

railroads,  wagon-roads,  and  hotels.  In  Switzer- 
land there  are  but  few  hotels  above  five  thou- 
sand feet,  and  most  people  live  below  the  three- 
thousand-foot  mark.  Timber-line  in  Colorado 
is  five  thousand  feet  farther  up  the  heights  than 
in  Switzerland.  The  Centennial  State  offers  a 
more  numerous  and  attractive  array  of  wild 
flowers,  birds,  animals,  and  mineral  springs 
than  the  land  of  William  Tell.  The  Rocky 
Mountain  sheep  is  as  interesting  and  audacious 
as  the  chamois;  the  fair  phlox  dares  greater 
heights  than  the  famed  edelweiss.  The  climate 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains  is  more  cheerful  than 
that  of  the  Alps;  there  are  more  sunny  days, 
and  while  the  skies  are  as  blue  as  in  Switzerland, 
the  air  is  drier  and  more  energizing. 

But  the  attractions  in  the  Alps  are  being  pre- 
served, while  the  Rocky  Mountains  are  being 
stripped  of  their  scenery.  Yet  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains  there  are  many  areas  rich  in  perish- 
able attractions  which  might  well  be  reserved 
as  parks  so  that  their  natural  beauties  could  be 
kept  unmarred.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  grow- 
ing interest  in  American  scenery  will  bring  this 

3H 


1&§t  Conservation  of  ^§>ceuerj> 

about  before  these  wild  mountain  gardens  are 
shorn  of  their  loveliness.1 

The  United  States  is  behind  most  nations  in 
making  profitable  use  of  scenery.  Alpine  scen- 
ery annually  produces  upward  of  ten  thousand 
dollars  to  the  square  mile,  while  the  Rocky 
Mountains  are  being  despoiled  by  cattle  and 
sawmills  for  a  few  dollars  a  square  mile.  Though 
Switzerland  has  already  accomplished  much 
along  scenic  conservation  lines,  it  is  working  for 
still  better  results.  It  is  constructing  modern 
hotels  throughout  the  Alps  and  is  exploiting  the 
winter  as  well  as  the  summer  use  of  these.  The 
Canadian  Government  has  done  and  is  doing 
extensive  development  work  in  its  national 
parks.  It  is  preparing  a  welcome  for  multitudes 
of  travelers ;  travelers  are  responding  in  numbers. 

The  unfortunate  fact  is  that  our  scenery  has 

1  Since  this  was  put  into  type,  the  Rocky  Mountain  Na- 
tional Park,  after  a  campaign  of  six  years,  has  been  established, 
and  campaigns  have  started  to  make  National  Parks  of  Mount 
Evans  and  Pike's  Peak.  And  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior 
has  appointed  a  Superintendent  of  National  Parks  and  called 
attention  to  the  great  need  of  legislation  for  these  Parks. 

315 


(RocGj)  (ttlounfoin  TlJonfcerfcmb 

never  had  a  standing.  To  date,  it  has  been  an 
outcast.  Often  lauded  as  akin  to  the  fine  arts, 
or  something  sacred,  commonly  it  is  destroyed 
or  put  to  base  uses.  Parks  should  no  longer  be 
used  as  pigpens  and  pastures.  These  base  uses 
prevent  the  parks  from  paying  dividends  in 
humanity. 

There  is  in  this  country  a  splendid  array  of 
Nature's  masterpieces  to  lure  and  reward  the 
traveler.  In  mountain-peaks  there  are  Grand 
Teton,  Long's  Peak,  Mt.  Whitney,  and  Mt. 
Rainier;  in  canons,  the  vast  Grand  Canon  and 
the  brilliantly  colored  Yellowstone;  in  trees,  the 
unrivaled  sequoias  and  many  matchless  prime- 
val forests;  in  rivers,  few  on  earth  are  enriched 
with  scenes  equal  to  those  between  which  rolls 
the  Columbia;  in  petrified  forests,  those  in  Ari- 
zona and  the  Yellowstone  are  unsurpassed;  in 
natural  bridges,  those  in  Utah  easily  arch  above 
the  other  great  ones  of  the  earth;  in  desert  at- 
tractions, Death  Valley  offers  a  rare  display  of 
colors,  strangeness,  silences,  and  mirages;  in 
waterfalls,  we  have  Niagara,  Yellowstone,  and 
Yosemite;  in  glaciers,  there  are  those  of  the 

316 


T&%t  Continuation  of  ^ctntty) 

Glacier  and  Mount  Rainier  National  Parks  and 
of  Alaska;  in  medicinal  springs,  there  is  an 
array  of  flowing,  life-extending  fountains;  in 
wild  flowers,  the  mountain  wild  flowers  in  the 
West  are  lovely  with  the  loveliest  anywhere; 
in  wild  animals  of  interest  and  influence,  we 
have  the  grizzly  bear,  the  beaver,  and  the  moun- 
tain sheep;  in  bird  music,  that  which  is  sung  by 
the  thrushes,  the  canon  wren,  and  the  solitaire 
silences  with  melodious  sweetness  the  other  best 
bird-songs  of  the  earth.  In  these  varied  attrac- 
tions of  our  many  natural  parks  we  have  ample 
playgrounds  for  all  the  world  and  the  oppor- 
tunity for  a  travel  industry  many  times  as  pro- 
ductive as  our  gold  and  silver  mines  —  and 
more  lasting,  too,  than  they.  When  these  scenes 
are  ready  for  the  traveler  we  shall  not  need  to 
nag  Americans  to  see  America  first;  and  Euro- 
peans, too,  might  start  a  continuous  procession 
to  these  wonderlands. 

In  the  nature  of  things,  the  United  States 
should  have  a  travel  industry  of  vast  economic 
importance.  The  people  of  the  United  States 
are  great  travelers,  and  we  have  numerous  and 

3i7 


(RocRg  (fllounfoin  Tfrontorfonb 

extensive  scenic  areas  of  unexcelled  attractive- 
ness, together  with  many  of  the  world's  greatest 
natural  wonders  and  wonderlands  which  every 
one  wants  to  see.  All  these  scenes,  too,  repose  in 
a  climate  that  is  hospitable  and  refreshing.  They 
should  attract  travelers  from  abroad  as  well  as 
our  own  people.  The  traveler  brings  ideas  as 
well  as  gold.  He  comes  with  the  ideals  of  other 
lands  and  helps  promote  international  friend- 
ship. Then,  too,  he  is  an  excellent  counter-irri- 
tant to  prevent  that  self-satisfied  attitude,  that 
deadening  provincialism,  which  always  seems 
to  afflict  successful  people.  Develop  our  parks 
by  making  them  ready  for  the  traveler,  and  they 
will  become  continuously  productive,  both  com- 
mercially and  spiritually. 

Our  established  scenic  reservations,  or  those 
which  may  be  hereafter  set  aside,  are  destined 
to  become  the  basis  of  our  large  scenic  industry. 
The  present  reservations  embrace  fourteen 
National  Parks  and  twenty-eight  National 
Monuments.  Each  Park  and  Monument  was 
reserved  because  of  its  scenic  wonders,  to  be  a 
recreation  place   for   the   people.     The    name 

3i8 


£#e  ConBtxbation  of  ^cenerj) 

Monument  might  well  be  changed  to  Park.  The 
Monuments  were  set  aside  by  executive  orders 
of  the  President;  the  Parks  were  created  by 
acts  of  Congress.  Each  Park  or  Monument  is  a 
wonderland  in  itself.  All  these  together  contain 
some  of  the  strangest,  sublimest  scenes  on  the 
globe.  Each  reservation  is  different  from  every 
other,  and  in  all  of  them  a  traveler  could  spend 
a  lifetime  without  exhausting  their  wonders. 

I  suppose  that  in  order  to  lead  Americans  to 
see  America  first,  or  to  see  it  at  all,  and  also  to 
win  travel  from  Europe,  it  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  get  America  ready  for  the  traveler. 
Only  a  small  part  of  American  scenery  is  ready 
for  the  traveler.  The  traveler's  ultimatum  con- 
tains four  main  propositions.  These  are  grand 
scenery,  excellent  climate,  good  entertainment, 
and  swift,  comfortable  transportation.  When 
all  of  these  demands  are  supplied  with  a  gener- 
ous horn  of  plenty,  then,  but  not  until  then,  will 
multitudes  travel  in  America. 

Parks  now  have  a  large  and  important  place 
in  the  general  welfare,  and  the  nation  that  neg- 
lects its  parks  will  suffer  a  general  decline.  The 

319 


(Rocfy)  Qtlounfoin  TPonbetfanb 

people  of  the  United  States  greatly  need  more 
parks,  and  these  are  needed  at  once.  I  do  not 
know  of  any  city  that  has  park  room  extensive 
enough  to  refresh  its  own  inhabitants.  Is  there 
a  State  in  the  Union  that  has  developed  park 
areas  that  are  large  enough  for  the  people  of  the 
State?  With  present  development,  our  National 
Parks  cannot  entertain  one  fifth  of  the  number 
of  Americans  who  annually  go  abroad.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  entertainment  facilities  in 
our  National  Parks  are  already  doing  a  capacity 
business.  How,  then,  can  our  Parks  be  seen  by 
additional  travelers? 

For  a  travel  industry,  the  present  needs  in 
America  are  for  cities  at  once  to  acquire  and 
develop  into  parks  all  near-by  scenery;  for  each 
State  to  develop  its  best  scenic  places  as  State 
Parks ;  and  for  the  nation  to  make  a  number  of 
new  National  Parks  and  at  once  make  these 
scenic  reservations  ready  for  the  traveler.  Sys- 
tems of  good  roads  and  trails  are  necessary.  In 
addition  to  these,  the  Parks,  Monuments,  and 
Reservations  need  the  whole  and  special  atten- 
tion of  a  department  of  their  own. 

3^o 


Tt%t  Conmbation  of  ^cenerp 

A  park  requires  eternal  vigilance.  The  better 
half  of  our  scenic  attractions  are  the  perishable 
ones.  The  forests  and  the  flowers,  the  birds  and 
the  animals,  the  luxuriant  growths  in  the  pri- 
meval wild  gardens,  are  the  poetry,  the  inspi- 
ration, of  outdoors.  Without  these,  how  dead 
and  desolate  the  mountain,  the  meadow,  and 
the  lake!  If  a  park  is  to  be  kept  permanently 
productive,  its  alluring  features  must  be  main- 
tained. If  the  beaver  ceases  to  build  his  pictur- 
esque home,  if  the  deer  vanishes,  if  the  moun- 
tain sheep  no  longer  poses  on  the  crags,  if  the 
columbine  no  longer  opens  its  "bannered" 
bosom  to  the  sun,  if  the  solitaire  no  longer  sings, 
■ — without  these  poetic  and  primeval  charms, 
marred  nature  will  not  attract  nor  refresh. 
People  often  feel  the  call  of  the  wild,  and  they 
want  the  wild  world  beautiful.  They  need  the 
temples  of  the  gods,  the  forest  primeval,  and 
the  pure  and  flower-fringed  brooks. 

It  would  be  well  to  save  at  once  in  parks 
and  reservations  the  better  of  all  remaining 
unspoiled  scenic  sections  of  the  country, —  the 
lake-shores  and  the  seashore,  the  stream-side, 

321 


(RocRg  Qftounfatn  T2?onbetfanb 

the  forests  primeval,  and  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains. There  is  a  great  and  ragged  scenic  border 
of  varying  width  that  extends  entirely  around 
the  United  States.  This  includes  the  Great 
Lake  region  and  the  splendid  Olympic  Moun- 
tains at  the  northwest  corner  of  the  country. 
Inside  of  this  border  are  other  localities  richly 
dowered  with  natural  beauty  and  dowered, 
too,  with  hospitable  climate.  The  Rocky  Moun- 
tain region  is  one  splendid  recreation-ground. 
There  are  many  beauty-spots  in  the  Ozark 
Mountains  of  Missouri  and  Arkansas,  and  there 
are  scenic  regions  in  New  York,  Pennsylvania, 
and  western  North  Carolina,  and  the  State  of 
Idaho  embraces  many  scenic  empires.  These 
contain  scores  of  park  areas  that  will  early  be 
needed. 

Every  park  is  a  place  of  refuge,  a  place  where- 
in wild  life  thrives  and  multiplies.  As  hunters 
are  perpetually  excluded  from  all  parks,  these 
places  will  thus  become  sanctuaries  for  our  van- 
ishing wild  life.  All  wild  life  quickly  loses  its  fear 
and  allows  itself  to  be  readily  seen  in  protected 
localities.   Wild  life  in  parks  thus  affords  enjoy- 

^22 


LONG'S    l'l    \K    I-'KOM    UK  11    VALE 


£0e  Conmbation  of  ^ctntx^ 

ment  by  being  readily  seen,  and  from  now  on  this 
life  will  become  a  factor  in  education.  Children 
who  go  into  parks  will  be  pleasantly  compelled 
to  observe,  delightfully  incited  to  think,  and 
will  thus  become  alert  and  interested,  —  will 
have  the  very  foundation  of  education.  Perhaps 
it  is  safe  to  predict  that  from  now  on  the  tend- 
ency will  be  to  multiply  the  number  of  parks 
and  decrease  the  number  of  zoological  gardens. 
Scenic  places,  if  used  for  parks,  will  pay  larger 
returns  than  by  any  other  use  that  can  be  made 
of  their  territory.  Parks,  then,  are  not  a  luxury 
but  a  profitable  investment.  Switzerland  is  sup- 
porting about  half  of  her  population  through 
the  use  of  her  mountain  scenery  for  recreation 
purposes.  Although  parks  pay  large  dividends, 
they  also  have  a  higher,  nobler  use.  They  help 
make  better  men  and  women.  Outdoor  life  is 
educational.  It  develops  the  seeing  eye,  supplies 
information,  gives  material  for  reflection,  and 
compels  thinking,  which  is  one  of  the  greatest 
of  accomplishments.  Exercise  in  the  pure  air 
of  parks  means  health,  which  is  the  greatest  of 
personal  resources,  and  this  in  turn  makes  for 

323 


efficiency,  kindness,  hopefulness,  and  high  ideals. 
Recreation  in  parks  tends  to  prevent  wasted  life 
by  preventing  disease  and  wrong-doing.  The 
conservation  of  scenery,  the  use  of  scenic  places 
for  public  recreation  parks,  is  conservation  in 
the  highest  sense,  for  parks  make  the  best  eco- 
nomic use  of  the  territory  and  they  also  pay 
large  dividends  in  humanity. 

The  travel  industry  is  a  large  and  direct  con- 
tributor to  many  industries  and  their  laborers. 
It  helps  the  railroads,  automobile-makers,  hotels, 
guides,  and  the  manufacturers  of  the  clothing, 
books,  souvenirs,  and  other  articles  purchased 
by  travelers.  Perhaps  the  farmer  is  the  one 
most  benefited ;  he  furnishes  the  beef,  fruit,  but- 
ter, chickens,  and  in  fact  all  the  food  consumed 
by  the  traveling  multitude.  A  large  travel  in- 
dustry means  enlarging  the  home  market  to 
gigantic  proportions. 

The  courts  have  recently  expressed  definite 
and  advanced  views  concerning  scenic  beauty. 
In  Colorado,  where  water  has  a  high  economic 
value,  a  United  States  Circuit  Court  recently 
decided  that  the  beneficial  use  of  a  stream  was 

3H 


£#e  Conservation  of  £kuntx% 

not  necessarily  an  agricultural,  industrial,  or 
commercial  use,  and  that,  as  a  part  of  the  scen- 
ery, it  was  being  beneficially  used  for  the  general 
welfare.  The  question  was  whether  the  waters 
of  a  stream,  which  in  the  way  of  a  lakelet  and 
a  waterfall  were  among  the  attractions  of  a  sum- 
mer resort,  could  be  diverted  to  the  detriment 
of  the  falls  and  used  for  power.  The  judge  said 
"No,"  because  the  waters  as  used,  were  con- 
tributing toward  the  promotion  of  the  public 
health,  rest,  and  recreation;  and  that  as  an 
object  of  beauty  —  "just  to  be  looked  at"  — 
they  were  not  running  to  waste  but  were  in 
beneficial  use.  He  held  that  objects  of  beauty 
have  an  important  place  in  our  lives  and  that 
these  objects  should  not  be  destroyed  because 
they  are  without  assessable  value.  The  judge, 
Robert  E.  Lewis,  said  in  part:  — 

11  It  is  a  beneficial  use  to  the  weary  that  they, 
ailing  and  feeble,  can  have  the  wild  beauties  of 
Nature  placed  at  their  convenient  disposal.  Is 
a  piece  of  canvas  valuable  only  for  a  tentfly,  but 
worthless  as  a  painting?  Is  a  block  of  stone 
beneficially  used  when  put  into  the  walls  of  a 

325 


(RocGg  (Wlounfotn  Ttfon^tfanb 

dam,  and  not  beneficially  used  when  carved 
into  a  piece  of  statuary?  Is  the  test  dollars,  or 
has  beauty  of  scenery,  rest,  recreation,  health 
and  enjoyment  something  to  do  with  it?  Is 
there  no  beneficial  use  except  that  which  is 
purely  commercial?"  This  decision  is  epoch- 
marking. 

I  Taken  as  a  whole,  our  National  Parks  and 
Monuments  and  our  unreserved  scenic  places 
may  be  described  as  an  undeveloped  scenic 
resource  of  enormous  potential  value.  These 
places  should  be  developed  as  parks  and  their 
resources  used  exclusively  for  recreation  pur- 
poses. Thus  used,  they  would  help  all  interests 
and  reach  all  people.  South  America,  Switzer- 
land, Canada,  and  other  countries  are  making 
intensified  and  splendid  use  of  their  parks  by 
reserving  that  wild  scenic  beauty  which  appeals 
to  all  the  world. 

Parks  are  dedicated  to  the  highest  uses.  They 
are  worthy  of  our  greatest  attentions.  It  is  of 
utmost  importance  that  the  management  of 
Forest  Reserves  and  the  National  Parks  be  sep- 
arate. In  1897  the  National  Academy  of  Sci- 

326 


£#e  Conserfcafton  of  ^»cenerg 

ences  in  submitting  a  plan  for  the  management 
of  the  Forest  Reserves  recommended  that  places 
specially  scenic  be  separated  from  the  Forest 
Reserves  and  set  aside  as  Parks  and  given  the 
separate  and  special  administration  which  parks 
need.  If  scenery  is  to  be  saved,  it  must  be  saved 
for  its  own  sake,  on  its  own  merits;  it  cannot  be 
saved  as  something  incidental. 

Multitudes  will  annually  visit  these  places, 
provided  they  be  developed  as  parks  and  used 
for  people  and  for  nothing  else.  Grazing,  lum- 
bering, shooting,  and  other  commercial,  con- 
flicting, and  disfiguring  uses  should  be  rigidly 
prohibited.  Scenery,  like  beauty,  has  superior 
merit,  and  its  supreme  use  is  by  people  for  rest 
and  recreation  purposes. 

Switzerland  after  long  experience  is  establish- 
ing National  Parks  and  giving  these  a  separate 
and  distinct  management  from  her  forest  re- 
serves. For  a  time  Canadian  National  Parks 
were  managed  by  the  Forest  Service.  Recently, 
however,  the  parks  were  withdrawn  from  the 
Forest  Service  and  placed  in  a  Park  Depart- 
ment. This  was  a  most  beneficial  change.   For- 


estry  is  commercial,  radically  utilitarian.  The 
forester  is  a  man  with  an  axe.  Trees  to  the  for- 
ester mean  what  cattle  do  to  the  butcher.  Lum- 
ber is  his  product  and  to  recite  "Woodman, 
Spare  that  Tree ! "  to  a  forester  would  be  like  ask- 
ing the  butcher  to  spare  the  ox.  The  forester  is 
a  scientific  slaughterer  of  the  forest;  he  must 
keep  trees  falling  in  order  to  supply  lumber.  A 
forester  is  not  concerned  with  the  conservation 
of  scenery.  Then,  too,  a  forester  builds  his  roads 
to  facilitate  logging  and  lumbering.  The  Park 
man  builds  roads  that  are  scenic  highways, 
places  for  people. 

We  need  the  forest  reserve,  and  we  need  the 
National  Park.  Each  of  these  serves  in  a  dis- 
tinct way,  and  it  is  of  utmost  importance  that 
each  be  in  charge  of  its  specialist.  The  forester 
is  always  the  lumberman,  the  park  man  is  a 
practical  poet;  the  forester  thinks  ever  of  lum- 
ber, the  park  man  always  of  landscapes.  The 
forester  must  cut  trees  before  they  are  over-ripe 
or  his  crop  will  waste,  while  the  park  man  wants 
the  groves  to  become  aged  and  picturesque. 
The  forester  pastures  cattle  in  his  meadows, 

328 


T&%t  Conmbation  of  ^ceturp 

while  the  park  man  has  only  people  and  romp- 
ing children  among  his  wild  flowers.  The  park 
needs  the  charm  of  primeval  nature,  and  should 
be  free  from  ugliness,  artificiality,  and  commer- 
cialism. For  the  perpetuation  of  scenery,  a  land- 
scape artist  is  absolutely  necessary.  It  would 
be  folly  to  put  a  park  man  in  charge  of  a  forest 
reserve,  a  lumbering  proposition.  On  the  other 
hand,  what  a  blunder  to  put  a  tree-cutting  for- 
ester in  charge  of  a  park!  We  need  both  these 
men;  each  is  important  in  his  place;  but  it 
would  be  a  double  misfortune  to  put  one  in 
charge  of  the  work  of  the  other.  A  National 
Park  service  is  greatly  needed. 

Apparently  William  Penn  was  the  first  to 
honor  our  scenery,  and  Bryant,  with  poetry, 
won  a  literary  standing  for  it.  Official  recogni- 
tion came  later,  but  the  establishment  of  the 
Yellowstone  National  Park  was  a  great  incident 
in  the  scenic  history  of  America  —  and  in  that 
of  the  world.  For  the  first  time,  a  scenic  wonder- 
land was  dedicated  as  "  a  public  park  or  pleasure 
ground  for  the  benefit  and  enjoyment  of  all  the 
people."  The  Yellowstone  stands  a  high  tribute 

329 


(Roc(fy  QHounfatn  TUonberfanb 

to  the  statesmanship,  the  public  spirit,  and  the 
energy  of  F.  V.  Hayden  and  the  few  men  who 
won  it  for  us. 

During  the  last  few  years  the  nation,  as  well 
as  the  courts,  has  put  itself  on  record  concern- 
ing the  higher  worth  of  scenery.  The  White 
House  conference  of  governors  recommended 
that  "the  beauty  ...  of  our  country  should  be 
preserved  and  increased";  and  the  first  Na- 
tional Conservation  Commission  thought  that 
"public  lands  more  valuable  for  conserving 
.  .  .  natural  beauties  and  wonders  than  for 
agriculture  should  be  held  for  the  use  of  the 
people." 

The  travel  industry  benefits  both  parties,  — ■ 
the  entertained  as  well  as  the  entertainer.  In- 
vestments in  outdoor  vacations  give  large  re- 
turns; from  an  outing  one  returns  with  life 
lengthened,  in  livelier  spirits,  more  efficient, 
with  new  ideas  and  a  broader  outlook,  and  more 
hopeful  and  kind.  Hence  parks  and  outdoor 
recreation  places  are  mighty  factors  for  the  gen- 
eral welfare;  they  assist  in  making  better  men 
and  women.  A  park  offers  the  first  aid  and  often 

330 


T&%t  Conmbation  of  ^cenerp 

the  only  cure  for  the  sick  and  the  overworked. 
Looking  upon  our  sublime  scenes  arouses  a  love 
for  our  native  land  and  promotes  a  fellow  feel- 
ing. Nature  is  more  democratic  even  than 
death;  and  when  people  mingle  amid  primeval 
scenes  they  become  fraternal.  Saving  our  best 
scenes  is  the  saving  of  manhood.  These  places 
encourage  every  one  to  do  his  best  and  help  all 
to  live  comfortably  in  a  beautiful  world.  Scen- 
ery is  our  noblest  resource.  No  nation  has  ever 
fallen  from  having  too  much  scenery. 


Z%t  (BocRp  (rrtounfotn  QWtonaf 
(parR 


t§t  (Rocty  (Wounfain 
(Uationaf  $m& 

yPj^XTEND  a  straight  line  fifty-five  miles  north- 
^■^  west  from  Denver  and  another  line  sixty 
miles  southwest  from  Cheyenne  and  these  lines 
meet  in  approximately  the  centre  of  the  Rocky 
Mountain  National  Park.  This  centre  is  in 
the  mountain-heights  a  few  miles  northwest  of 
Long's  Peak,  in  what  Dr.  F.  V.  Hayden,  the 
famous  geologist,  calls  the  most  rugged  section 
of  the  Continental  Divide  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains. 

This  Park  is  a  mountain  realm  lying  almost 
entirely  above  the  altitude  of  nine  thousand  feet. 
Through  it  from  north  to  south  extends  the 
Snowy  Range,  —  the  Continental  Divide,  — 
and  in  it  this  and  the  Mummy  Range  form  a 
vast  mountain  Y.  Specimen  Mountain  is  the 
north  end  of  the  west  arm  of  this  Y,  while  Mum- 
my Mountain  is  at  the  tip  of  the  east  arm.   Mt. 

335 


Clarence  King  on  the  south  forms  the  base  of 
the  stem,  while  Long's  Peak  is  against  the  east- 
ern side  of  the  stem,  about  midway. 

Long's  Peak,  ''King  of  the  Rockies,"  is  the 
dominating  peak  and  rises  to  the  altitude  of 
14,255  feet.  There  are  ten  or  more  peaks  in  the 
Park  that  tower  above  thirteen  thousand,  and 
upwards  of  forty  others  with  a  greater  altitude 
than  twelve  thousand  feet.  Between  these  peaks 
and  their  out-jutting  spurs  are  numerous  canons. 
The  Park  is  from  ten  to  eighteen  miles  wide,  its 
greatest  length  is  twenty-five  miles,  and  its  total 
area  is  about  three  hundred  and  sixty  square 
miles. 

A  line  drawn  around  the  Park  on  the  bound- 
ary line  would  only  in  two  or  three  places  drop 
below  the  altitude  of  nine  thousand  feet.  The 
area  thus  is  high-lying  and  for  the  most  part 
on  edge.  About  one  fifth  of  the  entire  area  is 
above  the  limits  of  tree-growth.  The  peaks  are 
rocky,  rounded,  and  sharp.  Here  and  there 
they  are  whitened  by  comparatively  small  snow 
and  ice  fields.  From  the  summits  the  moun- 
tains descend  through  steeps,  walls,  slopes,  ter- 

336 


>> I 

ROCKY   MOUHTA!!.,-?  I 

,    N*no»Ai  p*««m  ppfssa — "i 


Scale  of  Miles 


K.  It. Marshall,  Clu   I  I 


: 

,  U.S.  Geoltpitiil  Survey 


(RocBg  (mounfotn  Qtaftonaf  $at6 

races,  tablelands,  spurs,  gorges,  and  mountain 
valleys. 

This  Park  is  a  wilderness.  Though  entirely 
surrounded  by  settlers  and  villages,  it  is  an  al- 
most unbroken  wild.  Many  of  its  peaks  are  as 
yet  unclimbed.  There  are  pathless  forests,  un- 
visited  gorges,  unnamed  lakes,  and  unknown 
localities. 

Gray  and  red  granite  form  the  larger  portion 
of  its  surface.  Here  and  there  are  mixtures  of 
schist,  gneiss,  and  porphyry.  The  northwest 
corner  is  volcanic  and  is  made  up  of  rhyolite, 
obsidian,  and  lava.  The  Indians  have  a  tradi- 
tion concerning  the  volcanic  activity  of  Speci- 
men Mountain,  though  I  doubt  if  this  mountain 
has  been  active  within  a  century.  It  is  a  dead 
or  sleeping  volcano.  A  part  of  its  old  crater- 
rim  has  fallen  away,  and  brilliant  flowers  cover 
the  cold  ashes  in  the  crater. 

Most  of  the  territory  was  glaciated  during 
the  last  ice  age,  and  there  still  remain  five  small 
glaciers  and  a  number  of  ice-fields.  The  Hallctt 
Glacier  is  on  the  north  shoulder  of  Hague's 
Peak,  the  Sprague  Glacier  on  the  south  side  of 

337 


(RocBg  (mountain  Ttt7onber(anb 

Stone's  Peak,  Tyndall  Glacier  between  Flat- 
Top  and  Mt.  Hallett,  and  Andrews  Glacier  in 
a  cirque  of  Loch  Vale,  while  an  unnamed  small 
one  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  east  precipice  of 
Long's  Peak. 

There  can  hardly  be  found  a  greater  and  more 
closely  gathered  area  of  imposing,  easily  read 
glacial  records  than  those  which  centre  about 
Long's  Peak.  These  works  of  the  Ice  King, 
both  intact  and  partly  ruined,  have  attracted 
the  attention  and  study  of  a  number  of  promi- 
nent geologists  and  glaciologists.  Among  these 
ice  works  Dr.  Hayden  and  Dr.  David  Starr 
Jordan  have  climbed  and  wandered.  Vernon 
L.  Kellogg  has  here  gathered  material  for  a 
book,  and  Dr.  Edward  L.  Orton,  former  State 
Geologist  of  Ohio,  has  spent  many  weeks  here 
in  study.  Within  a  six-mile  radius  of  the  top 
of  Long's  Peak  are  more  than  thirty  glacier 
lakes  and  perhaps  twice  as  many  lakelets  or 
mountain  tarns.  Immediately  south  of  the 
Peak,  Wild  Basin  is  literally  filled  with  glacier- 
records.  To  the  north  is  Moraine  Park;  to  the 
northwest,  Glacier  Gorge  and  Loch  Vale;  to  the 

338 


(RocRg  (mountain  QWionaf  (parB 

west,  lying  between  the  Peak  and  Grand  Lake, 
there  is  a  wondrous  area  of  the  Ice  King's  topog- 
raphy. 

Bierstadt,  St.  Vrain,  and  Mills  Moraines  are 
imposing  deposits  of  glacial  debris.  Of  these 
Mills  Moraine  has  been  the  most  studied.  It 
apparently  holds  the  story  of  two  widely  sepa- 
rated ice  ages.  This  moraine  evidently  was 
formed  by  the  glacier  which  made  the  basin  of 
Chasm  Lake.  It  extends  eastward  from  Long's 
Peak,  its  uppermost  end  being  at  twelve  thou- 
sand five  hundred  feet.  At  timber-line  its 
trend  is  toward  the  southeast.  It  is  about  one 
mile  wide,  five  miles  long,  and  in  places  appar- 
ently more  than  one  thousand  feet  deep. 

The  ice-stream  which  piled  the  enormous 
Bierstadt  Moraine  took  its  rise  on  the  west  sum- 
mit slope  of  Long's  Peak.  It  flowed  first  toward 
the  west,  and  in  the  upper  amphitheatre  of 
Glacier  Gorge  it  united  with  the  ice-stream  from 
the  north  slope  of  Shoshone  Peak  and  the  stream 
off  the  eastern  slope  of  Mt.  McHenry.  Although 
a  part  of  this  enlarged  flow  appears  to  have  been 
thrust  across  the  Continental  Divide,  the  larger 

339 


(Roc%  QUoun^ain  TUonbttfanb 

portion  of  it  was  deflected  to  the  north  through 
Glacier  Gorge.  Emerging  from  this  gorge  and 
enlarged  by  the  ice-streams  from  Mt.  Otis,  Mt. 
Hallett,  and  other  peaks  in  the  Continental 
Divide,  it  flowed  on  to  thrust  against  the  east- 
ern base  of  Flat-Top  Mountain.  This  bent  it 
to  the  east,  and  from  this  turning-point  it  began 
to  unload  its  debris  on  Bierstadt  Moraine.  A 
part  of  its  debris  was  dropped  in  a  smaller  par- 
allel moraine  on  the  opposite  side  of  Glacier 
Creek,  and  finally  a  terminal  moraine  was  piled 
against  the  western  front  of  Green  Mountain, 
where  it  almost  united  with  the  terminal  part 
of  the  Moraine  on  the  south  side  of  Moraine 
Park. 

The  glaciers  have  formed  and  distributed 
much  of  the  soil  of  this  region.  Above  timber- 
line  there  are  wide,  sedgy  meadows  and  tundras 
and  dry,  grassy  moorlands.  Everywhere  on  the 
heights  where  there  is  soil  there  is  a  growth 
of  Arctic-Alpine  vegetation.  Above  the  limits 
of  tree-growth  are  enormous  ragged  areas  and 
tiny  ledge  gardens  that  are  crowded  with  a  vari- 
ety of  brilliantly  colored  wild  blossoms. 

340 


(£oc%  (mountain  QtafionaC  (patft 

The  average  altitude  of  the  timber-line  is 
about  eleven  thousand  three  hundred  feet, 
nearly  a  vertical  mile  higher  than  the  timber- 
line  in  the  Alps.  Timber-line  the  world  over  is 
a  place  of  striking  interest,  but  nowhere  have 
I  found  or  heard  of  a  timber-line  which  exhibits 
so  many  telling  features  as  does  the  forest-fron- 
tier on  the  eastern  side  of  the  Continental  Di- 
vide. The  prevailing  tree  on  the  drier  slopes  at 
timber-line  is  Pinus  flexilis ,  the  limber  pine.  In 
the  moist  places  Engelmann  spruce  predomi- 
nates, and  in  many  of  the  moister  places  there 
are  dwarfed  and  tangled  growths  of  arctic  wil- 
low, black  birch,  and  aspen. 

Among  the  least  broken  and  most  enchanting 
of  the  primeval  forests  of  the  Park  are  a  few 
that  are  grand.  One  of  these  is  between  the 
head  of  Fall  River  and  the  Poudre;  another  is 
in  Forest  Canon;  one  is  in  the  southern  part  of 
Wild  Basin ;  still  another  is  on  the  western  slope 
of  Stone's  Peak  and  Flat-Top  Mountain.  These 
forests  are  mostly  Engelmann  spruce,  with  a 
scattering  of  sub-alpine  fir.  Around  the  lower, 
warmer  slopes  grows  the  Western  yellow  pine, 

34i 


and  on  the  cold  lower  slopes  the  Douglas  spruce. 
There  are  a  number  of  extensive  lodge-pole  pine 
forests.  These  are  from  thirty  to  one  hundred 
and  thirty  years  old.  Lines  of  aspen  adorn  most 
streams;  here  and  there  where  the  soil  is  moist 
they  expand  into  groves. 

The  wild-flower  inhabitants  of  this  great 
Park  number  more  than  a  thousand  species. 
Many  of  these  are  members  of  famous  families, 
—  famous  for  their  antiquity  upon  the  earth, 
for  their  delicate  scent,  for  their  intricate 
and  artistic  structure,  and  for  their  brilliant 
color. 

The  gentian  family  is  represented  by  fifteen 
species,  one  of  these  being  a  fringed  blue  gentian, 
a  Western  relative  of  the  fringed  gentian  cele- 
brated by  the  poet  B  ryant .  There  are  intricately- 
formed  orchids.  The  silver  and  blue  columbine 
is  here  at  its  best;  it  blossoms  on  the  lower 
slopes  in  June,  on  the  heights  during  Septem- 
ber. The  populous  pea  family,  in  yellow,  white, 
and  lavender,  covers  and  colors  extensive  areas. 
Then  there  are  asters,  daisies,  mariposa  lilies, 
polemonium,  wintergreen,  forget-me-nots,  black- 

342 


(£oc&£  (mountain  Qtaftonaf  $ar8 

eyed  Susans,  and  numerous  other  handsome 
flower  people.  These  flowers  are  scattered  all 
over  the  Park  except  in  places  destitute  of  soil. 
I  have  found  primroses,  phlox,  and  mertensia 
on  the  summit  of  Long's  Peak.  In  the  heights 
above  the  limits  of  tree-growth  there  are  scores 
of  other  blossoms. 

More  than  one  hundred  species  of  birds  nest 
in  these  scenes.  Among  these  are  the  robin,  the 
bluebird,  the  wren,  the  hermit  thrush,  the  hum- 
mingbird, the  golden  eagle,  the  white-crowned 
sparrow,  and  that  marvelous  singer  the  soli- 
taire. Among  the  resident  birds  are  the  ouzel, 
the  crested  and  the  Rocky  Mountain  jays,  the 
chickadee,  the  downy  woodpecker,  and  the 
magpie.  The  ptarmigan  and  the  rosy  finch  are 
prominent  residents  in  the  heights  above  the 
timber-line. 

Once  the  big-game  population  was  numer- 
ous. But  the  grizzly  has  been  almost  extermi- 
nated, and  only  a  few  black  bear  remain.  There 
are  a  few  mountain  lions  and  elk.  Deer  are 
fairly  common,  and  in  localities  mountain  sheep 
are  plentiful  and  on  the  increase.    Specimen 

343 


(Roc%  (mountain  TCPontofanb 

Mountain  probably  is  one  of  the  places  most 
frequented  by  mountain  sheep.  A  number  of 
times  flocks  of  more  than  a  hundred  have  been 
seen  on  this  mountain.  A  scattering  of  wolves, 
coyotes,  and  foxes  remain.  Conies  are  numerous 
in  the  slide  rock  of  the  heights,  and  snowshoe 
rabbits  people  the  forests.  The  Fremont,  or 
pine,  squirrels  are  scattered  throughout  the 
woods.  Lunch  where  you  will,  and  the  dear 
and  confiding  busy  chipmunk  is  pretty  certain 
to  approach.  The  region  appears  to  be  above 
the  snake  line,  and  I  have  never  seen  a  snake 
within  the  boundary.  The  streams  and  a  num- 
ber of  the  lakes  have  their  population  of  rain- 
bow and  brook  trout.  Around  the  water's  edge 
mink  make  their  home. 

The  beaver  has  colonies  large  and  small  all 
over  the  park  up  to  the  limits  of  tree-growth. 
Houses,  ponds,  dams,  tree-cuttings,  canals,  and 
other  works  of  the  beaver  are  here  readily  seen. 
Excellent  opportunities  are  afforded  to  study 
beaver  manners  and  customs  and  to  compre- 
hend the  influence  of  his  work  in  the  conserva- 
tion of  soil  and  water. 

344 


THE    FALL   RIVER   ROAD   AC: 


THE   CONTINENTAL    D1V1DK 


(RocBg  (mountain  Qtaftonat  $ar6 

Big  game,  and  in  fact  all  wild  life,  begin  to 
increase  in  numbers  and  also  to  allow  them- 
selves to  be  seen  from  the  instant  they  receive 
the  complete  protection  which  parks  afford. 
This  park  will  thus  assure  a  multiplication  of  the 
various  kinds  of  wild  life  which  the  region  now 
contains.  And  this  increased  wild  life,  with  no 
hunters  to  alarm,  will  allow  itself  to  be  readily 
seen. 

There  are  only  a  few  miles  of  road  within  the 
Park  boundaries,  but  the  Fall  River  Road,  now 
under  construction  across  the  Continental  Di- 
vide at  Milner  Pass,  just  south  of  Specimen 
Mountain,  will  be  a  wonderful  scenic  highway. 
Although  there  are  a  number  of  trails  in  the 
Park,  so  broken  is  the  topography  that  most 
of  the  country  a  stone's  throw  away  from  them 
is  unvisited  and  unknown. 

A  road  skirts  the  western  boundary  of  the 
Park  and  touches  it  at  Grand  Lake  and  Speci- 
men Mountain.  Another  road  closely  parallels 
the  eastern  boundary-line,  and  from  it  a  half- 
dozen  roads  touch  the  Park.  This  parallel  road 
reaches  the  roads  of  Denver  and  of  the  plains 

345 


(Rocffy  Qtlounfoin  Tftonberfanb 

through  the  Boulder,  Left  Hand,  Big  Thomp- 
son, and  two  St.  Vrain  canons. 

The  drainage  of  the  western  half  of  the  Park 
concentrates  in  the  Grand  River  on  the  west- 
ern boundary  and  reaches  the  Pacific  Ocean 
through  the  Grand  Canon  of  Arizona.  A  num- 
ber of  streams  rise  in  the  eastern  side.  These 
assemble  their  waters  in  the  Platte  River  out  on 
the  plains.  In  their  upper  course,  all  these 
streams  start  from  the  snows  and  come  rush- 
ing and  bounding  down  the  roughest,  steepest 
slopes. 

The  climate  of  the  eastern  slope  is  compara- 
tively dry  and  mild.  The  winters  are  sunny, 
but  little  snow  falls,  and  the  winds  are  occasion- 
ally warm  and  usually  extremely  dry.  Though 
only  a  few  miles  from  the  eastern  slope,  the  west- 
ern rarely  receives  a  wind,  and  its  snow-fall  is 
more  than  double  that  of  the  eastern. 

Numerous  authors  and  artists  have  made 
long  visits  in  this  region,  and  its  scenery  has 
received  their  highest  praise.  Bierstadt,  the 
artist,  came  here  in  1870.  A  few  years  later  he 
was  followed  by  the  famous  authors  Isabella 

346 


(£oc%  (mounfom  Qtaftonaf  (parfi 

Bird,  Anna  Dickinson,  and  Helen  Hunt.  Fred- 
erick H.  Chapin  visited  the  region  in  1888 
and  wrote  a  splendidly  illustrated  book  about 
it,  called  "Mountaineering  in  Colorado."  This 
was  published  by  the  Appalachian  Club.  In 
commenting  upon  the  scenery  of  the  region, 
Hayden,  Father  of  the  Yellowstone  National 
Park,  turned  aside  from  scientific  discussion  in 
his  geological  report  for  1875  to  pay  the  fol- 
lowing tribute  to  the  scenic  charm  of  this 
territory :  — 

"Not  only  has  nature  amply  supplied  this 
with  features  of  rare  beauty  and  surroundings 
of  admirable  grandeur,  but  it  has  thus  distrib- 
uted them  that  the  eye  of  an  artist  may  rest 
with  perfect  satisfaction  on  the  complete  pic- 
ture presented.  It  may  be  said,  perhaps,  that 
the  more  minute  details  of  the  scenery  are  too 
decorative  in  their  character,  showing,  as  they 
do,  the  irregular  picturesque  groups  of  hills, 
buttes,  products  of  erosion,  and  the  finely 
moulded  ridges  —  the  effect  is  pleasing  in  the 
extreme." 

Long's    Peak    is    considered    by    mountain- 

347 


QRocRg  (mountain  T3?onbeiffcml> 

climbers  an  excellent  view-point.  Standing 
aside  one  mile  from  the  Continental  Divide  and 
rising  above  a  large  surrounding  wonderland, 
its  summit  and  upper  slopes  give  splendid  views 
and  command  a  variety  of  scenes,  near  and  far. 
While  upon  its  slope,  Mr.  Chapin  said:  "I 
would  not  fail  to  impress  on  the  mind  of  the 
tourist  that  the  scenes  are  too  grand  for  words 
to  convey  a  true  idea  of  their  magnificence. 
Let  him,  then,  not  fail  to  visit  them."  It  is  an 
extremely  rocky  and  rugged  peak,  but  it  is  al- 
most entirely  free  of  snow  and  ice,  so  that  climb- 
ing it  is  simply  a  day's  work  crowded  with  en- 
joyment and  almost  free  from  danger.  Though 
it  is  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  lower  than  the 
highest  peak  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  three 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  lower  than  Mt.  Whitney, 
California,  the  highest  peak  in  the  United  States, 
Long's  Peak  probably  has  a  greater  individual- 
ity than  either.  Alongside  it  stands  Mt.  Meeker, 
with  an  altitude  of  14,000  feet.  These  sky  towers 
are  visible  more  than  one  hundred  miles.  The 
Indians  of  the  Colorado  and  Wyoming  plains 
used  to  call  them  the  "Two  Guides." 

348 


(£oc8£  (mountain  QWtonaf  $ar8 

It  is  possible,  if  not  probable,  that  Long's 
Peak  was  originally  one  thousand  or  even  two 
thousand  feet  higher.  The  mass  of  this  peak 
stands  apart  from  the  main  range  and  embraces 
three  other  peaks.  These  are  Mt.  Meeker,  Mt. 
Washington,  and  Storm  Peak.  All  are  united 
below  thirteen  thousand  feet.  They  may  once 
have  been  united  in  one  greatly  higher  mass. 
Much  of  the  debris  in  the  vast  Boulderfield  and 
Mills  Moraines  and  a  lesser  amount  from  the 
enormous  Bierstadt  and  St.  Vrain  Moraines 
must  have  come  from  the  summit  slope  of  the 
Long's  Peak  group.  No  small  part  of  this  may 
have  come  from  above  thirteen  thousand  feet. 
An  exceedingly  small  percentage  of  the  glacial 
debris  which  surrounds  Long's  Peak  would,  if 
atop  the  Long's  Peak  group,  elevate  it  two 
thousand  feet  higher. 

The  Glacier  Gorge  region,  which  lies  just  to 
the  northwest  of  Long's  Peak,  probably  has  the 
most  magnificent  scenery  in  the  Park.  Here  are 
clustered  enormous  glaciated  gorges,  great  gla- 
ciated walls,  alpine  lakes,  waterfalls,  moraines, 
alpine  flora,  and  towering  peaks. 

349 


(£ocfy>  (mountain  TDonberfon* 

Wild  Basin,  a  broken  and  glaciated  region  of 
twenty-five  square  miles,  lies  immediately  south 
of  the  Peak.  This  basin  is  almost  encircled 
by  eight  towering  peaks,  and  the  enormous 
St.  Vrain  Moraine  thrusts  out  of  its  outlet  and 
shows  where  the  united  ice-rivers  formerly 
made  their  way  from  this  basin.  Within  this 
wild  area  are  lakes,  forests,  waterfalls,  and  a 
splendid  variety  of  wild  and  lovely  scenes. 

The  glacier  lakes  and  wild  tarns  of  this  Park 
are  one  of  its  delights.  Though  most  of  these 
water  fountains  are  small,  they  are  singularly 
beautiful.  They  are  in  the  middle-mountain 
zone,  in  a  belt  which  lies  between  the  altitudes 
of  ten  thousand  and  twelve  thousand  feet.  There 
are  more  than  a  hundred  of  these,  and  their 
attractiveness  equals  that  of  any  of  the  moun- 
tain lakes  of  the  world. 

The  best  known  and  most  popular  of  these 
lakes  are  Fern  and  Odessa.  These  lie  about 
twelve  miles  west  of  the  village  of  Estes  Park. 
Chasm  Lake,  on  the  east  side  of  Long's  Peak, 
is  set  in  an  utterly  wild  place.  Its  basin  was 
gouged  from  solid  granite  by  the  old  Long's 

350 


(Rocfy  (mountain  Qtafionaf  (parS 

Peak  Glacier.  Mt.  Washington,  Mt.  Meeker, 
and  Long's  Peak  tower  above  it,  and  around  it 
these  peaks  have  flung  their  wreckage  in  chaotic 
confusion.  A  glacier  almost  crawls  into  it,  and 
the  east  precipice  of  Long's  Peak,  the  greatest 
precipice  in  the  Park,  looms  above  it. 

Long,  Black,  Thunder,  Ouzel,  and  Poudre 
Lakes  have  charms  peculiar  to  each,  and  each 
is  well  worth  a  visit.  Lake  Mills,  in  the  lower 
end  of  Glacier  Gorge,  is  one  of  the  largest  lakes 
in  the  Park.  The  largest  lake  that  I  know  of  in 
the  Rocky  Mountain  National  Park  is  Lake 
Nanita.  This  is  about  one  mile  long  and  half 
as  wide,  and  reposes  in  that  wilderness  of  wild 
topography  about  midway  between  Grand 
Lake  and  Long's  Peak.  There  are  mountain 
people  living  within  eight  or  ten  miles  of  this 
lake  who  have  never  even  heard  of  its  existence. 
Although  I  have  been  to  it  a  number  of  times,  I 
have  never  found  even  a  sign  of  another  human 
visitor.  A  member  of  the  United  States  Geolog- 
ical Survey  is  the  only  individual  I  have  ever 
met  who  had  seen  it. 

As  originally  planned,  the  Park  was  to  have 

35i 


(£oc6g  (fflounfain  Tftonbarfanb 

more  than  twice  its  present  area.  I  hope  there 
may  be  early  added  to  this  region  Mt.  Audubon, 
Arapahoe  Peak,  and  other  territory  to  the  south. 
The  summit  of  Twin  Peaks  on  the  east  would 
make  another  excellent  addition.  A  part  of  the 
Rabbit  Ear  Range  to  the  northwest,  and  Medi- 
cine Bow  Mountains  and  the  headwaters  of  the 
Poudre  lying  to  the  north,  would  make  excel- 
lent park  territory. 

But  even  as  it  now  stands,  this  splendidly 
scenic  region  with  its  delightful  climate  appears 
predestined  to  become  one  of  the  most  visited 
and  one  of  the  most  enjoyed  of  all  the  scenic 
reservations  of  the  Government.  In  addition 
to  its  scenery  and  climate,  it  is  not  far  from  the 
geographical  centre  of  the  United  States.  A 
number  of  transcontinental  railroads  are  close 
to  it,  and  two  railroads  run  within  a  few  miles 
of  its  border.  The  Lincoln  Highway  is  within 
twenty  miles  of  it,  and  six  excellent  automobile 
roads  connect  its  edges  with  the  outside  world. 

Each  year  visitors  reach  it  in  increasing  num- 
bers. During  1914  there  were  more  than  56,000 
of  these,  many  of  whom  remained  to  enjoy  it 

352 


(Roc6g  QUounfom  Qtoflonaf  (parft 

for  weeks.  It  has  a  rare  combination  of  those 
characteristics  which  almost  every  one  wants 
and  which  all  tired  people  need,  —  accessibility, 
rare  scenery,  and  a  friendly  climate. 


THE   END 


3nbe;c 


3nb^ 


Alpine  Pass,  80. 

Alps,    the,    compared    with   the 

Rocky   Mountains,   313,   314; 

conservation    of    scenery    in, 

315.  323- 
Altitude,  effects  of,  10-12,  302- 

305- 
Andrews  Glacier,  153,  338. 
Arapahoe  Glacier,  153. 
Arapahoe  Peak,  352. 
Aspen,  61,  214,  215,  218,  219. 
Austin,  Mary,  quoted,  46. 

Battle  Mountain,  the  mountain 
sheep  of,  41-46. 

Bear,  black,  63;  above  timber- 
line,  107;  eating  dead  trout, 
136. 

Bear,  grizzly,  and  mountain 
sheep,  43;  tearing  up  dwarfed 
trees,  61;  hibernation,  63, 
201-203;  above  timber-line, 
107;  eating  dead  trout,  136; 
watching  a  forest  fire,  142;  a 
grizzly  observed  at  close  quar- 
ters, 187-189;  caution,  188; 
alertness  and  brain-power, 
189;  following  a  grizzly,  190, 
191;  a  cattle-killing  grizzly, 
191,  192;  curiosity,  192,  193; 
attitude  towards  man,  194- 
196;  stories  of,  196,  197;  food, 
197-200;  fishing,  198,  199;  a 
mother  and  two  cubs,  200, 
201 ;  hibernating  habits,  201- 


203;  emerging  from  hiberna- 
tion, 203-205;  young,  205; 
cubs  as  pets,  205,  206;  color 
and  races,  206,  207;  size  and 
agility,  207,  208;  age,  208; 
verging  on  extermination,  208; 
shortening  the  life  of  a  moun- 
tain park,  235. 

Bears,  emerging  from  snow,  63; 
an  encounter  on  the  Hailett 
Glacier,  108,  109;  benefited  by 
deep  snow,  269. 

Beaver,  136;  the  Cascade  Col- 
ony annihilated  by  drought, 
249-256;  benefited  by  deep 
snow,  269,  270;  in  the  Rocky 
Mountain  National  Park,  344. 

Beetle,  battle  with  a  wasp,  III. 

Bellfiower,  120. 

Bierstadt,  Albert,  346. 

Bierstadt  Lake,  157,  158. 

Bierstadt  Moraine,  339,  340. 

Bighorn.     See  Sheep,  Mountain. 

Birch,  black,  61,  62. 

Bird,  Isabella,  346,  347. 

Birds,  visiting  the  summit  of 
Long's  Peak,  102;  of  the 
mountain-summits,  112-115; 
in  winter,  271-274;  on  Pike's 
Peak,  306,  307;  of  the  Rocky 
Mountain  National  Park,  343. 

Bobtail  Gulch,  79. 

Boulderfield,  15,  349. 

Bowles,  Samuel,  quoted,  230, 
231. 


357 


3nb^ 


Buckwheat,  wild,  118. 
Buds,  as  food,  272. 


Cameron's  Cone,  309. 

Camp  Bird  Mine,  172,  173. 

Camp-bird.  See  Jay,  Rocky 
Mountain. 

Camp-fire,  the,  245. 

Canada,  National  Parks,  315, 
326,  327. 

Chapin,  Frederick  H.,  347; 
quoted,  348. 

Chapman,  Frank  M.,  59. 

Chasm  Lake,  162,  339,  350,  351. 

Cheyenne  Canon,  300. 

Cheyenne  Mountain,  299. 

Chicago  Lake,  157. 

Chickadees,  273. 

Chinook  wind,  the,  69-75,  2^9- 

Chipmunk,  big,  289,  290. 

Chipmunk,  busy,  290,  344. 

Chipmunks,  and  heavy  snow, 
270;  hibernation,  271,  282, 
283;  in  the  author's  yard,  277- 
291;  persistency,  280;  tunnels, 
280,  281;  bedding,  281,  282; 
bathing,  282;  drinking,  282; 
winter  stores,  282-284;  a 
frightened  young  one,  284; 
and  weasels,  285;  and  coyotes, 
285,  286;  sense  of  proprietor- 
ship, 286;  the  young,  287,  288; 
food,  289;  mobbed  by  birds, 
289,  290;  species,  290;  enemies, 
290;  and  children,  290,  291. 

Columbine,  119,  342. 

Conservation  Commission,  330. 

Continental  Divide,  335,  345. 

Cony,  or  pika,  no,  ill,  344. 

Coyotes,  136;  and  chipmunks, 
285,  286. 


Crags,  the,  44,  45. 

Cricket,  the  return  horse,  169- 

183. 
Crow,  Clarke,  64,  199. 

Death  Valley,  316. 

Deer,  above  timber-line,  109;  in 
deep  snow,  259,  260;  yarding 
habit,  262-265;  a  herd  killed 
by  a  mountain  lion,  265;  win- 
ter food,  265;  summer  and 
winter  ranges,  265,  266. 

Dickinson,  Anna,  347. 

Eagle,  faithful  to  its  dead  mate, 

137- 
Eagle,  golden,  102,  115. 
Elk,  summer  and  winter  ranges, 

265,    266;    preyed    upon    by 

wolves,  266. 
Estes  Park,  description,  232,  233. 

Fall  River  Road,  345. 

Fern  Lake,  350. 

Finch,  rosy,  brown-capped,  1 12, 

"3-  m 

Fir,  alpine,  61. 

Flat-Top  Mountain,  44,  341. 

Florissant,  298,  299. 

Flowers,  at  timber-line,  65;  of 
mountain-summits,  1 16-120; 
on  Pike's  Peak,  308,  309. 

Forest  Canon,  341. 

Forest  fires,  records  of,  125-128; 
resistance  of  various  trees  to 
fire,  128-130;  injury  to  South- 
ern hardwood  forests,  131;  an- 
tiquity, 131;  a  record  in  a  red- 
wood, 131-133;  origins,  133- 
135.  x39;  following  a  fire,  135- 
140;  effect  on  animal  life,  136, 


358 


3^ 


137,  142;  up  and  down  slopes, 
140,  141;  heat  at  a  distance, 
141;  varying  speed,  141,  142; 
brilliant  displays,  142-145; 
cause  of  some  mountain  parks, 

233.  234- 
Forest  Reserves,  should  be  kept 

separate  from  National  Parks, 

326-329. 
Forester,  and  scenery,  328,  329. 
Fossil-beds,  298,  299. 
Fox,  silver,  109. 
Fremont,  John  C,  28;  quoted, 

231. 

Game,  big,  in  deep  snow,  259- 
268;  yarding,  262-265;  winter 
food,  265,  266;  bunching  habit, 
267,  268. 

Gentians,  342. 

Glacier  Creek,  340. 

Glacier  Gorge,  23,  43,  158,  338- 
340;  scenery,  349. 

Glacier  meadows.   See  Meadows. 

Glaciers,  as  makers  of  lake-ba- 
sins, 150-153;  in  Colorado, 
153;  in  the  Rocky  Mountain 
National  Park,  337,  338;  gla- 
cial records  in  the  Rocky 
Mountain  National  Park,  338- 
340. 

Goat,  mountain,  36. 

Grand  Lake,  157,  1 58. 

Gray's  Peak,  90. 

Greagory  Gulch,  79. 

Great  Falls,  Mont.,  71. 

Green  Mountain,  340. 

Grosbeak,  Western  evening,  307. 

Hague's  Peak,  337. 

Hallett  Glacier,  108,  153,  337. 


Hayden,  Dr.  F.  V.,  330,  335,  338; 

quoted,  232,  347. 
Hayden  Valley,  232. 
Hesperus,  a  return  horse,    173, 

174. 
Horses,  the  story  of  Cricket,  169- 

183;  return  horses,   170-176. 
Hunt,  Helen,  299,  347. 

Insects,  on  the  heights,  108,  III. 

Jay,  Rocky  Mountain,  64,  265. 
Jordan,  Dr.  David  Starr,  338. 
Junco,  gray-headed,  115. 

Kellogg,  Vernon  L.,  338. 

King,  Clarence,  his  "Mountain- 
eering in  the  Sierra  Nevada" 
quoted,  1 1. 

Lake  Agnes,  162. 

Lake  Mills,  351. 

Lake  Moraine,  309. 

Lake  Nanita,  351. 

Lake  Odessa,  158,  350. 

Lakes,   made  by  glaciers,    149- 

153;     beauties    of,     154-160; 

names,  157,  158;  ice  on,  160; 

filled  by  debris  and  landslides, 

161-165;  in  Rocky  Mountain 

National  Park,  350,  351. 
Landslides,  destruction  of   lakes 

by,  162-165. 
Leucosticte,  brown-capped.    See 

Finch,  rosy. 
Lewis,  Judge  Robert  E.,  decision 

as  to  scenery,  324-326. 
Lion,  mountain,  a  game-hog,  42; 

pursuing  mountain    sheep    on 

the  heights,  106,  107;  killing  a 

herd  of  deer,  265. 


359 


3nb# 


Lizard  Head,  176. 

Loch  Vale,  158,  338. 

Long,  Stephen  H.,  his  expedi- 
tion, 302. 

Long's  Peak,  guiding  experi- 
ences on,  3-18;  the  Narrows, 
13;  temperature  at  timber- 
line,  60;  altitude,  102,  336; 
life  on  the  summit,  102;  glacial 
records  about,  338;  flowers  on 
summit,  343;  view,  347,  348; 
individuality,  348;  geological 
history,  349. 

Magpie,  64,  136. 

Mary  Lake,  44. 

Meadows,  glacier,  evolution  of, 

237-239;     termination,     239, 

240. 
Mertensia,  118. 
Middle  Park,  229-231. 
Mills  Moraine,  339,  349. 
Milner  Pass,  345. 
Minnehaha  Falls,  306. 
Montana,  the  Chinook  wind  in, 

71,  73- 
Moose,  yarding  habit,  262,  263. 
Moraine  Lake,  157. 
Moraine  Park,  338,  340. 
Moraines,   in   Rocky   Mountain 

National  Park,  339,  340. 
Mt.  Audubon,  352. 
Mt.  Clarence  King,  336. 
Mt.  McHenry,  339. 
Mt.  Meeker,  42;  altitude,  348; 

geological  history,  349. 
Mt.  Orizaba,  59. 
Mt.  Richthofen,  162. 
Mt.  Washington    (Colo.),     163, 

349- 
Mt.  Wilson,  176. 


Mountain-climbing,  speed  in,  3- 
6;  keeping  the  party  together, 
7;  quarrels,  7,  8;  sickness,  9- 
1 1 ;  autocracy  of  the  guide,  12- 
14;  a  narrow  escape.  15,  16; 
suggestions  to  climbers,  18; 
advantages  of,  18,  19. 

Mountain-sickness,  5,  6,  9,  14; 
causes  and  cure,  10,  11. 

Muir,  John,  quoted,  19,  58,  149, 
150. 

Mummy  Mountain,  335. 

Mummy  Range,  335. 

National  Monuments,  318,  319. 

National  Parks,  in  Canada,  315, 
326,  327;  in  the  United  States, 
315  note,  318,  319;  need  of 
separate  management,  320, 
326-329;  perishable  attrac- 
tions, 321;  wild  life  in,  322, 
323;  as  an  investment,  323, 
324;  development,  326;  should 
be  kept  separate  from  Forest 
Reserves,  326-329;  establish- 
ment of  Yellowstone  Park, 
329;  Rocky  Mountain  Nation- 
al Park,  335-353- 

North  Park,  229,  231. 

Ophir  Loop,  176,  180. 

Orton,  Dr.  Edward  L.,  338. 

Ouray,  171,  172. 

Ouzel,    water,    in    winter,  272, 

273. 
Ouzel  Lake,  158. 

Paint-brush,  118. 

Parks,  mountain,  their  charac- 
teristics, 229-232;  origin,  233- 
235;    end,    235-237;    glacier 


360 


InUjc 


meadows,  237-240;  as  camp- 
ing-places, 240-245. 

Parks,  National.      See  National 
Parks. 

Penn,  William,  329. 

Pika,  or  cony,  no,  in,  344. 

Pike,  Zcbulon  M.,  301. 

Pike's  Peak,  situation,  295;  alti- 
tude, 295;  accessibility,  295, 
296;  view,  296;  characteristics, 
297;  attractions,  297-300;  his- 
tory, 301,  302;  climate,  302- 
305;  summit,  305;  life  zones, 
305,  306;  bird-life,  306,  307; 
big  game,  307;  wild  flowers 
and  trees,  308,  309;  geology, 

309.  3i°- 

Pillars  of  Hercules,  300. 

Pine,  limber,  61-63. 

Pine,  lodge-pole,  125,  126,  140; 
extension  of  area,  211;  seed- 
ing, 21 1-2 13;  spread  depend- 
ent upon  fire,  213;  elements  of 
success,  214;  a  forest  pioneer, 
218,219;  hoarding  of  seed, 219, 
220;  rapidity  of  growth,  220, 
221;  overgrown  cones,  221- 
223;  fruitfulness,  223;  release 
of  seeds,  223;  character  of 
stands,  224;  giving  way  to 
other  species,  225;  dependence 
upon  fire,  225,  226;  range,  226. 

Pine,  pitch,  214. 

Pine,  short-leaved  (Pinus  Mon- 
tezuma), 59. 

Pine,  Western  yellow,  two 
stumps,  125,  126;  a  good  fire- 
fighter, 129;  preserved  by  fire, 
140. 

Porcupine,  270. 

Prospect  Dome,  300. 


Ptarmigan,  102,  113,  114;  in  the 
winter  snows,  271,  272;  food, 
272. 

Rabbit,  snowshoe,  344. 

Rabbits,  270. 

Rats,  mountain,  137. 

Redwood,  128,1  130;  a  forest- 
fire  record,  131-133. 

Rocky  Mountain  National  Park, 
location, area, and  topography, 
335.  336;  geology,  337~34o; 
forests,  341,  342;  wild  flowers, 
342,  343;  animal  life,  343~345: 
roads  and  trails,  345;  streams, 
346;  climate,  346;  scenery, 
346-350;  lakes,  350,  351;  ac- 
cessibility, 352;  visitors,  352, 

353- 
Rocky     Mountains,     Colorado, 
scenery  of,  313,  314. 

St.  Vrain  Moraine,  339,  349, 
350. 

San  Cristoval  Lake,  157. 

San  Juan  Mountains,  and  return 
horses,  170,  171. 

Scenery,  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, 313,  314;  conservation 
and  destruction,  314-331;  in 
the  United  States,  316,  317, 
321,  322;  a  judicial  decision, 
324-326;  and  forestry,  327- 
329;  literary  and  official  re- 
cognition, 329,  330. 

Schneider,  Dr.  Edward  C, 
quoted,  303-305. 

Seven  Lakes,  309. 

Sheep,  mountain,  64;  a  flock  de- 
scending a  mountain,  23-28; 
as  acrobats,  24;  fable  as  to 


361 


3nb^ 


landing  on  horns,  28,  29;  shape 
and  size  of  horns,  29,  30;  a 
wild  leap,  30-32;  accidents, 
32,  33;  an  agile  ram,  33~35; 
hoofs,  35;  size,  color,  and  other 
characteristics,  35,  36;  species 
and  range,  36,  37;  in  winter, 
37;  excursions  to  the  lowlands, 

37,  38;  composition  of  flocks, 
38;  craving  for  salt,  38;  lambs, 

38,  39;  near  approach  to,  40; 
a  ram  killed  by  a  barbed-wire 
fence,  40,  41 ;  the  flock  on  Bat- 
tle Mountain,  41-46;  fights, 
44-46;  threatened  extermina- 
tion, 46;  at  high  altitudes, 
105-107;  watching  a  forest 
fire,  142;  clings  to  the  heights 
in  snowy  times,  266,  267. 

Shoshone  Peak,  339. 

Silver  Lake,  157. 

Silverton,  171. 

Snow,  on  summits  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  103;  and  animal 
life,  259-275;  a  great  snow, 
268;  and  the  Chinook  wind, 
269. 

Snow-slides,  started  by  dyna- 
mite, 79;  a  prospector  out- 
witted, 79-84;  habits,  81;  ob- 
servation of,  84-86;  classifi- 
cation, 87-90;  coasting  on  a 
slide,  91-94;  a  large  slide,  94- 

97- 
Solitaire,  Townsend's,  64,   154, 

241. 
South  Cheyenne    Canon,    298- 

300. 
South  Park,  229. 
Sparrow,  white-crowned,  64, 102, 

115.  154- 


Specimen    Mountain,    38,    335, 

337.  343.  344- 

Sprague  Glacier,  153,  337. 

"  Springfield  Republican,"  quot- 
ed, 230,  231. 

Spruce,  Douglas,  140. 

Spruce,  Engelmann,  61. 

Squirrel,  Fremont,  or  pine,  64, 

344- 
Squirrels,  and  deep  snow,  270, 

271;  hibernation,  271. 
Stone's  Peak,  338,  341. 
Storm  Peak,  349. 
Switzerland,     conservation      of 

scenery  in,  313-315.  323.  327- 

Telluride,  171,  172,  174-176, 
183. 

Thatch-Top  Mountain,  moun- 
tain sheep  on,  23-28. 

Thunder  Lake,  157,  158. 

Timber-line,  characteristics  of, 
49-58;  altitude,  50,  59,  60,  101; 
determining  factors,  58,  59; 
temperature,  60;  species  of 
trees  at,  60,  61 ;  age  of  trees  at, 
61,  62;  animal  life  at,  63,  64; 
flowers  at,  65;  impressions  at, 
65,  66;  animal  life  above,  101, 
102,  105-115;  flowers  above, 
116-120. 

Trapper's  Lake,  157. 

Trees,  species  at  timber-line,  60; 
age  at  timber-line,  61,  62;  re- 
sistance to  fire,  128-130;  meth- 
ods of  reproduction,  214-216; 
tolerance  and  intolerance,  216- 
218;  of  Pike's  Peak,  308.  See 
also  Timber-line. 

Trout  Lake,  157,  176. 

Twin  Lakes,  157. 


362 


3tiW 


Tyndall,  John,  18. 
Tyndall  Glacier,  338. 


Wasp,  battle  with  a  beetle,  III. 

Weasels,  above  timber-line,  lit, 
112;  and  chipmunk,  285. 

Wild  Basin,  338,  341;  descrip- 
tion, 350.  _ 

Willow,  arctic,  61. 

Willow,  propagation,  215. 


Wolves,  266,  268. 

Woodchuck,  above  timber-line, 

109. 
Woodpeckers,  273. 

Yarding,  262-265. 
Yellowstone  National  Park,  es- 
tablishment of,  329. 

Zones,  life,  305,  306. 


(Cbe  Riiicrsibc  prcjsg 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

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